


Paradigm Shift

by heywonwoo



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sometimes angst, mental illnesses and disabilities, mentions of minor character death, most times fluff, occasional underage drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heywonwoo/pseuds/heywonwoo
Summary: This story starts towards the end of Mingyu’s teenage life, wherein he realizes that A. his dad probably—very, very likely—hates him, B. he is always, for some reason, drawing butterflies on the margins of his notebooks, and C. he’s gay.(In short: A story in which a student journalist just wants to remember, then falls in love all over again with an introverted asshole that wants nothing to do with him.)





	1. Prologue: Polarity

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Paradigm Shift** (pair•uh•dime shift)  
>  A fundamental change in approach or underlying assumptions. Alternatively known as when a hopeful romantic becomes infatuated with a cynic.
> 
> –
> 
> Inspired by a picture I saw of Mingyu at ISAC 2015 and the movie "My Name is Khan."

****Pause.

If you’re thinking that this is just going to be a love story about a guy finally accepting the fact that he’s gay, you’re only half right. The other half of that—throw it away, burn it, eat it, use it as toilet paper, because that’s not it. And this is definitely not a story about mental illnesses, and daddy issues (maybe a little, actually), and inaccurate depictions of high school, and all the other problematic shit that is told through word vomit. This is—if you really want to know—a long-winded explanation as to why Mingyu Kim is breathing, blinking and living in a hospital room, sprawled out in front of the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in the eighteen years of his life.

 

_Freshman year—three years ago… maybe a little before that._

Mingyu hit puberty at around the age of twelve. He was going through some drastic changes, especially in his voice, and it triggered so much anxiety because he didn’t understand how to keep up. He was growing hair in places that used to be clean, smooth to touch, and he swore he was a couple inches shorter than Ms. Yun at the beginning of the semester. A month into puberty, he was already looking down at her and tall enough to use her shoulder as a support for his elbow.

Mingyu’s friends added to his helplessness, laughing instead of offering useful advice. And if they did try to help, he’d still be left with bare hands and penniless pockets. His closest friend at the time—his neighbor Jose, who was always willing to trade Pokémon cards with him after school—told him, “You let nature guide you, _Man-_ gyu. I did that and feel like a totally different person now.” (The last word had a voice crack, but Mingyu chose to ignore it.) He asked his sister for help at one point, but she was, like, eight, so she definitely didn't do anything about it. Because he was too afraid to ask his parents to save him from death—or what seemed like death, at least—he Googled all the questions he had, and one of the results mentioned masturbation. Stupid, innocent, _gullible_ twelve-year-old Mingyu Kim thought it was a medical thing to ease the raging hormones inside of him. Ultimately, after drawing the conclusion of what he believed had to be done, he one day sat in bed, discarded his baggy jeans, then tried it. He started to cry the moment he touched his penis because his hands were too cold and sweaty.

He was lucky, though, because his cries for help were heard from downstairs and his parents came rushing in without thinking twice of what was happening. It was embarrassing since he was half naked, in tears, and probably _still_ sweating, but his mom hugged him regardless, and his dad patted his head, and his little sister offered him some of her red bean bun. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” his mom said in her soft lullaby voice, and his dad added, “It’s normal, Mingyu.” He continued to cry, but his sister fed him the bun and that was all it took for him to forget about his cold penis.

That night before he went to bed, he carved in his brain and the rest of him the undeniable fact that his family would always love him unconditionally, no matter how much of an embarrassment he was.

Two years later and so much had changed. He grew to be _much_ taller than Ms. Yun—“You’re like an extra long vegetable,” his friends would sometimes tell him, which eventually lead to the nickname _Eggplant_ —and he walked around looking like he could be the child of Aphrodite, catching girls’ hearts one smile at a time. He stopped wearing his mom-bought, Target brand Star Wars t-shirts; moved on to windbreakers and Hollister jeans. However, despite the change, he was still the same oblivious yet likable guy from middle school.

He was all excitement and hopes knowing that he was going to leave middle school and transition to high school. He was especially excited to know that rather than attending the public school he was zoned for, he received an acceptance letter from the academy he applied to, which meant that he wouldn't be seeing all of the same faces from the last three years. Albeit grateful for that, because he wouldn't have to deal with the dumbasses and jerks he used to encounter everyday, he also didn't know how he’d find new friends at Kent Academy.

In mid-July, his fourth best miracle happened.

“Eggplant!” Mingyu flinched and dropped his watering hose in the flower pot he was cleaning, looking up at his best friend Jihoon, a musical genius and his quote-on-quote right-hand man. “I got accepted into Kent!”

Those five words—they were the miraculous things that saved Mingyu from loneliness, because he was a speck of dust without the short, full-faced version of his best friend. Thus, on a warm August morning, chubby Jihoon and pubescent Mingyu rode the bus and stepped on campus as freshmen together. Nothing changed compared to what they saw at orientation, only there were a lot more students and a lot more teachers this time. No one stood on the landscape—“The school spent thousands of dollars on just that,” Mingyu’s guide told him at orientation, “it’s crazy, but the school’s beautiful. We take our reputation very seriously here”—and students were either sitting on benches, standing at the sides of the walkways or waiting in front of their alpha classes until the bell rang.

The day went on, either encouraging students and teachers to move forward by bribing them with candy at the end of the line, or physically dragging them with the sun and the moon. Mingyu had four classes with Jihoon, i.e. half of his entire schedule. English, Spanish, Biology, and Engineering—Mingyu was beyond relieved knowing that Jihoon had signed up for the same program area as him because the same program area meant the same classes, and the same classes meant having a friend to lean on during TED lectures and instruction. Within the first three hours of walking from class to class, building to building, Mingyu and Jihoon became acquainted with Soonyoung and Seokmin from Western Middle School, two (without a doubt) inseparable people.

Sometime after the first day, high school had already started to mold Mingyu into an entirely different person—in terms of fashion, language, study habits, and behavior—and it all began with an ironically distracting introvert in Spanish class.

“Won..? Last name J-E-O-N?”

“Here. It’s Wonwoo.”

Mingyu looked up. Swept black hair and glasses—he was a new face, wasn’t even there on the first day. He was leaning back in his seat, twirling a BIC mechanical pencil between his fingers the same way drummers do with their drumsticks. Everything about his face was so sharp and chiseled, he was like a walking mannequin with a beating heart. Why Mingyu couldn’t tear his gaze away, that was a mystery he didn’t really understand. He didn’t even notice he was staring until Señor Pratt repeated his name and asked him to raise his hand. Mingyu blinked, did as he was told, then spared that Wonwoo kid another glance.

“Now”—Señor Pratt did a loud clap—“it’s time for icebreakers in Español, y’all.”

There were two things wrong with that line. Number one: A gringo Spanish teacher said “y’all” and “Español” in one sentence. It was, to say the least, a dry attempt at being funny, but Mingyu didn’t expect much from a man with his Blow Pop gut tucked underneath a short-sleeved button-up and joggers. Second: Icebreakers. Students _hated_ icebreakers as much as they loved the internet, which was a damn mouthful, really. They weren’t fun, gave people social anxiety, everyone would ask if they were over the moment they started, and they were simply elongated ways to say _Hi, my name is blahblahblah_.

It wasn’t like the students could do much about it since the activity counted as a participation grade, though; thus, Señor Pratt walked the students out into the hallway, put them into groups, then gave instruction. Mingyu and Jihoon stood close to each other—shoulder-to-shoulder close—in hopes of being in the same group. Three large, imperfect human circles were formed, taking up the first fraction of the hallway. Heights varied from short to average, considering that the population of tall people was quite small at the school. Mingyu was part of that rare bunch.

The rules to this icebreaker were simple: Everyone introduced themselves at the beginning by simply saying their names. Then—the part that really initiated the game—one student stood in the middle of the circle, called out a name, and said person had to duck as the two people siding him or her shouted, “BANG!” If that person was “shot,” they went in the middle. If the person on the left shot the one on the right, then the latter would go in the middle, or vice versa.

Yeah, it was a dumb game.

Mingyu sucked at icebreakers, and it didn’t take a genius to recognize that. He consequently stood in the center three out of four of the times he was called out, which was a whole lot for an easy game like this. Jihoon? He never lost. Of course he didn’t, he was _the_ Jihoon Lee, the winner of everything and loser of nothing. With his finger guns, he shot people left and right effortlessly; ducked so fast, it was like he was never there. It made Mingyu wonder what would happen if he had an _actual_ gun—

Nope. Scary thoughts aside. Mingyu didn’t want to potentially be Jihoon’s next and first murder victim.

The final time Mingyu was in the middle, it hit him: The new guy hadn’t been called out yet. He looked around the circle, stalling, but kept his thoughts on the newbie. _What was his name again? Walter? Waldo? Walrus?_

Giving up (he didn’t want to shout, “WALRUS!” and offend the dude, c’mon), Mingyu took a few steps closer to the guy, leaned in and asked, “Sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Wonwoo,” he replied, deep and— _Wow, is he even a freshman?_ _Puberty must’ve hit this guy with a truck._

“Ah, okay.” Mingyu stood straight again and nodded. “Nice name. I almost called you Walter.”

And then Wonwoo laughed pretty hard at that, even though it wasn’t all that funny (it really _was_ a nice name; what was so funny about that?). His eyes and nose crinkled, his back hunched over and his top row of teeth—no cavities, Mingyu suspected—were visible, and it was probably the greatest thing Mingyu had ever witnessed in the fourteen years he had lived. But— _Fuck, that was the gayest thing I’ve ever thought of._

At the end of the game, Señor Pratt told the students to return to the classroom, and Jihoon slapped Mingyu’s arm and whispered, “Dude, what was that look on your face? That was, like, so different and— Who are you? Who’s _that?_ Walter, right? That’s what you said? _”_ on their way inside. Mingyu didn’t really know how to answer any of those questions, because he wasn’t sure what _did_ happen. Maybe it was the Tylenol he took in the morning for his headache; possibly the headache itself. Whatever it was, it confused him.

 

—

 

 _Senior year—present._  

Mornings are the hardest for Mingyu—always. Four years rotting in hell, you’d guess that he’d already be accustomed to his all-black-coffee, early-rush-to-the-bus-stop routine, but he really isn’t yet, and perhaps he never will be. Small portioned breakfasts, lamp-light morning glows, and much too excited greetings from his peers, trained him to despise waking up at five—sometimes six—AM. It’s a negative thing to say, really dark and pessimistic, but he feels death shadow over him every time his seven alarms tell him to _wake the fuck up_.

So, fumbling with the keys to his mom’s BMW, he curses to himself and flusteredly unlocks the door, sitting in the driver’s seat. His mom’s old Korean CD—all about losing a lover or getting their hearts broken or some other Cupid’s failure shit—starts playing when he turns the ignition. Hurriedly, he drives out of the community and ejects the CD on his way to school, tossing it in the backseat.

 _“Don’t forget to pick up the yearbook samples from the front office,”_ he recollects from his conversation with Mr. Carson, his journalism teacher, this morning, briefly before he ran out the house, _“it’s going to be a great year! I can feel it!”_

That better be true, he thinks. Last school year was complete shit (at least for him), and out of all the contests he entered for photography and writing, he only won third place for best student article of the district—and that was only one out of the seven he signed up for. It was a total push down from the things he’d accomplished two years ago—first place in an “All About Humans” photography contest, a hundred dollar prize for having the best yearbook cover design, two free tickets to Disneyland for writing the best short story, and another hundred-something dollar prize for the best school blog post—which made his insecurities rise greatly. Now, he isn’t sure what to expect. He completely lost his touch.

Coincidentally, as he thinks about his failures as a journalist and photographer and writer, his phone rings. He glances down at the center console and swipes the screen when he sees Jihoon’s name appear. He puts it on speaker.

“Hello?”

_“Eggplant! Did you get Carson’s email?”_

Mingyu makes a left turn. “I haven’t checked my email since last week, but we talked over the phone.”

_“So he told you about the music club thing?”_

“I know not of this music club thing you speak of.”

_“Do you really want to know?”_

“Enlighten me. Tickle my pickle.”

_“Fuckin’ weirdo. So, yeah, apparently music club will be held in his room from now on, which means we gotta share.”_

He almost slams his brakes as his heart skips several beats. “We have to _what_?”

_“The school has no place to put them because some classrooms are too small and others are already taken. The principal won’t even let them use the banquet room, so we’re forced to share Carson’s class."_

“Man, fuck that,” Mingyu whines, stopping at a red light. “Can’t they use the cafeteria?”

_“Can’t. Key club has meetings there.”_

“Right. Well, this sucks. So what about after school stuff?”

_“We’ll talk about it with them soon. If the meeting drags on long enough, Carson might make us stay after school till six again.”_

“Running me over sounds better than staying for that long.”

That’s not how Mingyu wanted to start his morning, not at all. Receiving a call from your journalism partner, informing you that you’ll probably have to work ten times harder for what you want. And it’s not that Mingyu isn’t willing to try harder, because he loves challenging himself. The thing is, making things simple for him and the journalism team sounds a lot more reassuring and less tiring and _not_ burdensome than the former.

And here’s the big issue about sharing Mr. Carson’s room with music club: _There is no space_ —not for both them and journalism. Kent Academy’s journalism team is the best in the states, with nine consecutive wins for the best yearbook in the nation and having the greatest instructor to ever step foot on Earth. That being said, the students of this class work long and hard to achieve their goals, which means training on three-day weekends, staying after school until the stars are out, and risking A+ papers for pretty page designs.

Schedules like that don’t make room for sharing a classroom with music club.

Whatever, right? It won’t work out, anyway—Mingyu knows that—so he doesn’t have much to worry about. Music club can move to playing in the hallways instead for all he cares, because he won’t let them stop their class from losing their rep.

He reaches campus seven minutes before the first bell. His car is parked towards the back of the lot, in front of a brick wall that divides a three-story apartment complex and his school apart. While tucking his keys into his backpack and zipping it closed, he hears someone else shut their car door. The sound is different from what his car sounds like, because while his closes with an airy _thud_ , this sound is squeaky and somehow older. He looks up. It’s a Volkswagen van—you know, the kind that stereotypical hippies drive in those 70’s films—and the person walking away from it is Wonwoo.

Wonwoo’s carrying what looks like a crate of art supplies when Mingyu sees him, and stacked over that crate are two large packs of Bounty paper towels. Some of his hair is hiding underneath a visor with the school’s name embroidered at the front, but it's hard to see his face when all the things he’s holding are in the way.

Before Wonwoo can walk off, Mingyu asks, “Do you need help with that?”

That’s when he can see Wonwoo’s face, tired and lips completely shut, like he isn’t really considering on responding. His glasses hang low on his nose, as well as his visor. It’s cloudy; there’s no need for a hat.

“I’m okay,” he replies, “but thanks for asking, Mingyu.” Next, he starts walking. Mingyu shrugs his shoulders to adjust his backpack and pull the second strap over his arm. He doesn’t really think of giving Wonwoo a second thought, but he instinctively glances in his direction. He sees Wonwoo slouching over, setting his things down on the blacktop. He places his hands on his hips, sighs, then turns to look at Mingyu again with a sheepish grin. “I lied. I need help.”

That makes Mingyu smile a little. He swerves around his car and walks up to Wonwoo, bending down to pick up the crate. Shit, this is heavy, he thinks. But he had already offered to help, so there’s no turning back. Wonwoo takes the paper towels and adjusts his messenger bag—the same one he’s been using since freshman year, torn and distressed. Together, they wordlessly walk through the school’s double-doors and Mingyu follows Wonwoo to wherever he plans on going.

“How was your weekend?” Mingyu asks, just to be nice. Wonwoo doesn’t answer and smiles instead. “Did you do anything?” Wonwoo doesn’t answer again. Mingyu decided to stop asking questions for now.

They arrive at one of the 100’s classrooms in building C, where most of the core classes and tech rooms are. It’s the biggest classroom in the building, but Mingyu’s never really been here; he’s only seen it through the windows of the hallways. It’s a clean, almost bland room with mustard walls and a door at the back that connects it to another. The rows of iMacs and Wacom tablets and two teacher’s desks only mean one thing: He’s in web design.

“So”—He’s a bit hesitant because last time he asked Wonwoo a question, he was ignored—“you’re in Web?” Wonwoo nods. “That’s cool. I’m in Engineering.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He puts the paper towels on a table in the back, pointing at the empty spot next to it. “You can put the stuff here.”

Mingyu does as he’s told, clenches his fists, then relaxes them. “That was really heavy. What’s inside?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Kind of.”

Wonwoo bluntly replies, “It’s a dead body.”

Mingyu blinks. “A— What? I didn't see…”

“I’m joking. It’s capstone project stuff; need it for my poster-board.” Wonwoo unzips the big pocket of his backpack and takes out a book. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Uh, no problem.” It doesn't seem like Wonwoo really wants Mingyu to stay, so he thinks of walking back, but he’s dumb and asks, “What book is that?” Wonwoo shows him the cover, pursing his lips in a strained, closed smile. It’s a psychology book. “Do you have a favorite author?” Too many questions. _I talk way too much._ Wonwoo doesn’t reply again, but he surprisingly doesn’t look annoyed; he looks like he’s debating on whether or not he should say anything back. Mingyu decides to make things easier for Wonwoo by saying, “Never mind, you don’t have to answer that.”

So he heads out of the classroom, turning his back on Wonwoo and facing the hallway, where a small circle of freshmen is playing League of Legends on their laptops. What was he thinking? Getting close to the school’s introvert by offering him help, asking stupid questions that he doesn’t want to answer because he probably hates small talk. Everyone hates small talk, he tells himself.

But his third best miracle happens—

“I like Hermann Hesse.”

—and Mingyu turns, catching a glimpse of Wonwoo turning his gaze away. “What?” he asks. Wonwoo doesn't want to repeat himself, though, so he’s quiet again. Finally, the bell rings and Mingyu has to blink a few times before walks out of the room, resisting the urge to stay a minute longer. Just ‘cause.

During free period, as he sits and waits for the woman in the front office to give him the yearbook samples Mr. Carson wanted, Mingyu Googles Herman Hesse on his phone. As the morning announcements start on the office TV, he hears Seokmin’s voice chant, “Goooooood morning, Kent Academy!” and orders _The Glass Bead Game_ on Amazon—a Herman Hesse novel.

(A week later, he tells Jihoon, “You don’t understand, the entire time I imagined Morgan Freeman reading me to bed every night, and it was freakin’ amazing,” to which Jihoon replies, “You’re a perv. Morgan Freeman would never love you enough to read you to sleep.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)


	2. Sinking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mingyu's grades aren't the only reason why his life's starting to go downhill.

****In a metaphorical sense, butterflies are what people should think of when they see the words “glow” and “up” muddled together in a suffocating, slang modeled Instagram caption on Thursdays. They’re the morphism of caterpillars; emerged from their cocoons after weeks of resting and changing and glow up-ing. The webbish, art-like details of a butterfly's wings make them nature’s most organic and wondrous creatures to flutter about. Butterflies are beautiful. Mingyu loves beautiful things. That’s why he’s sitting in engineering class, drawing butterflies in his journal rather than drafting his capstone project.

Drawing instead of working—it’s been a Mingyu thing, as Jihoon likes to say, ever since… well, he can’t remember. In fact, Mingyu can’t really remember _anything_ that happened before fifth grade; all he can trace are the instinctive things that he should've already known or understood, like fourth grade math, how to kick a soccer ball into a net, why he should’ve felt ashamed whenever his dad gave him his signature scowl, and how to draw—guess—a butterfly. It’s complicated and a tongue twister on words, but it’s just how it is. He slept with a remembrance of everything, then woke up forgetting it all. And, of course, he desperately wants to remember and feel nostalgic or embarrassed by his old memories like normal people do, yet it can’t happen when he has to rely on his family to tell him that he once chewed on a popsicle stick and choked when he was six.

It’s kind of frustrating to watch him sketch the wings of a Monarch, completely pushing aside the blueprints that he has yet to work on, somehow numb to feeling his engineering teacher practically burn holes in the back of his head. Even on the blueprints he’s drawn moths and caterpillars and butterflies, and he probably hasn’t noticed he has. Funny thing is, living where he’s at, butterflies are truly a rare sight. Mingyu’s never seen one in his life.

“Hey,” Jihoon hisses across from him, and because Mingyu doesn't respond, he whacks his forehead with a pencil. “ _Hey_. Stop drawing. Capstone is important.”

Rubbing the spot Jihoon hit, Mingyu says, “Ow, fuck. Is _anyone_ here even doing their capstone? C’mon, you know people do it, like, the month before.”

“Are you really going to risk that?”

He sets down his pencil and smirks a little, still rubbing the fresh red line across his forehead. “You’re talking to the guy who can potentially be your valedictorian this year, my friend. I, Mingyu Kim, a young genius, can _totally_ cram all my responsibilities and _still_ have straight A’s.”

“Wow,” Jihoon scoffs, rolling his eyes as he looks away to hide his subtle grin, “someone’s especially cocky today. What, is there another freshman trying to ride your dick this year?”

“ _No._ ” He pauses. “It’s a sophomore this time. Sue Lynn.”

“You’re saying her name like I actually know who she is.” Jihoon thinks about it for a second. “I take that back; I _do_ know her—I know everyone and everything about everyone—”

“Look who’s cocky now.”

“—but I could care less. You always say no to them anyway, so who cares.”

Mingyu shrugs, pouting his lips. “Sue’s nice. She’s just…”

“Loud? Boy obsessed? Only likes you because you’re Korean?”—“Hey, girls don’t just like me because I’m Korean!”—“Face it, she’s not your type. Also, you shouldn’t get involved with a fifteen-year-old.”

“Sixteen.”

“Whatever the hell she is—fifteen, sixteen, sixty, a fetus—you still shouldn’t get involved. Don't lead her on, either.”

Sighing, Mingyu replies, “Alright, alright. No sophomores. No sixty-year-old cougars. No fetuses. I should just spend my final year of high school as a”—He pounds his chest for emphasis, but maybe a bit too hard—“free man.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Jihoon checks the time on his phone, then grunts as he hops off his stool and starts gathering his things. “We have two minutes. Soonyoung just texted me and said we’re sitting by the gazebo today.”

As Mingyu leans to the side to grab his backpack from the ground, he asks, “Why? Wait, no, don’t answer that. He’s gonna do that freshman prank thing again, isn’t he?”

“Offering pads to innocent fourteen year-olds,” Jihoon clarifies, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He pulls the straps to bring it higher, “as he does every year.”

And by pads, Jihoon means exactly what you’re thinking: _Pad_ pads, the ones teenage girls never have in their bags when they need them most. No one really knows when, nor why, Soonyoung started carrying them around—hell, _he_ doesn’t even know—but all Mingyu can remember is when he began to notice the gradual increase of girls who started crowding around him as the months and years passed, asking him for pads and being _offered_ pads.

That’s Soonyoung, though, and it’s the best Soonyoung anyone could ask for. He’s that one guy in Key Club who could sit in the back and still be the loudest (alongside Seokmin, of course); he’s the face of school news (alongside Seokmin, too); he’s the physical embodiment of “fuck it, let’s just do it and hope we survive” (okay, let’s just say Seokmin is almost everything Soonyoung is, but without the extra weird stuff sprinkled on top). He’s already found his title— _The Pad Guy_ or, alternatively, _News Anchor Dude_ —and everyone knows it won’t be hard for him to claim a new title after high school.

Mingyu and Jihoon ride through a wave of students as they exit through the same door, resisting the urge to shove away the fat backpacks of the underclassmen in front of them. Then, finally free from the claustrophobic state they were briefly in, they cross the quad and make their way to the picnic tables outside of the lunchroom. Soonyoung’s grinning at them with round cheeks and crescent eyes as they reach their table, and Mingyu prepares himself by stealing a small bag of sliced apples from a random tray of a random student.

“Hey, guys, want some—”

“NO”—Mingyu shoves the sliced apples in Soonyoung’s mouth, shutting him up and making him drop his pads on the concrete—“WE DON’T WANT YOUR PADS.”

Soonyoung coughs out the bag and throws it at Mingyu square in the face, saliva coating the tip of his nose. Picking up his pads, he snaps, “Total disrespect, dude! Pads cost money,” then threateningly flinches at Mingyu. “Fight me, _bro._ ”

Jihoon opens his bag of Chex Mix, offering some to Seokmin before eating one himself. “You’re wearing one right now, aren’t you?” _Crunch._ “I’ve seen you try one on in the restroom, Soonyoung.”

With pride, his face transforms into one of his squishy, smug, hamster-like looks that his girlfriend loves but his best friends hate _,_ as he admits, “Oh, hell yeah. It feels like a diaper that doesn’t snuggle my ass; I love it.”

“You’re an embarrassment to mankind,” Seokmin says.

They laugh, including Soonyoung, and that’s when Janice, his girlfriend, shows up with a plate of dry pepperoni pizza, sits down and asks, “You’re all laughing; did I miss something? What embarrassing thing did Mingyu do?”

Mingyu stops laughing, but his grin is still in place. “Hey,” he exclaims, pointing at Soonyoung, “it’s not me this time! Your boyfriend’s wearing a pad!”

“Shhh, the whole cafeteria doesn’t need to know!” Jihoon warns.

Janice makes a face at Soonyoung and goes, “Wait, really? You’re actually wearing a pad?”

“Mhmm”—Soonyoung wiggles his eyebrows—“wanna see?”

Seokmin and Jihoon choke on their mouthfuls of Chex Mix, but Mingyu laughs until he has to hold onto the table to keep himself up. “Keep it. No one wants to see your dick being canoodled by a pad,” Janice says. “By the way, Yuna needs one. Give.”

At the mention of Yuna, Seokmin stiffens, and it’s so noticeable that everyone at the table now has their attention on him. Soonyoung’s even more smug, if that’s physically possible, as he flashes that look at his best friend, because Seokmin’s had a crush on Yuna since spring break of junior year. He describes her as that little blessing of a breeze on a hot summer day and the sound of birds chirping in the morning, but Jihoon likes to summarize it as, “Our little Minnie thinks Yuna’s hot and likes to hear her sing.” Seokmin denies it, despite agreeing to it a little on the inside.

“How about _Seokmin_ , here, gives one to her?” Soonyoung suggests, teasingly waving a pad in Seokmin’s face.

He grabs it and gives it to Janice. “Dude, shut up, that’s weird.”

“Maybe it’ll be the first move to finally asking her out on a date.” Soonyoung puts his acting face on—this ugly, scrunchy look that only a mother could love. “ _Hey, Yuna, here’s a pad. D’ya wanna get outta here and—_ ”

Janice pinches his nose, hard enough to possibly give him a nosebleed, and Soonyoung goes _ah-ahh_ as he pleads for her to let go. “Stop embarrassing, him!” She releases, kisses his nose in apology, and Soonyoung sticks his tongue out to lick her chin. Janice wipes it and punches his shoulder. “You’re disgusting. C’mon, I was like Seokmin when I first liked you. Have mercy.”

“Merce is given.” He grabs her hand and holds it tight, waving it back and forth. Playfully, he says, “Happy?”

Janice crinkles her nose. “Sure.”

“PDA!” Seokmin shouts. “Ugh, we get it, you guys are the perfect couple. Don’t rub it in.”

Mingyu coos in his face mockingly. “Aw, Seokmin’s  all sulky because he doesn't have a girlfriend.”

“You”—Seokmin points his finger at Mingyu as Janice gets up to give Yuna the pad—“are cancer on legs. Shut up.”

“Yeah,” Jihoon says, “the last time he dated anyone was two years ago, and that only lasted two weeks.”

Seokmin argues, “She stole my wallet!”

“ _And_ your sweater.”

“My favorite sweater.”

“Exactly. Tragic.”

Soonyoung leans against the table and says, “Just do what I did when I asked out Janice.”

“You gave her an expired coupon and wrote, ‘Are you free this Saturday’,” Seokmin says. He angrily shoves his hand in Jihoon’s bag of Chex Mix and puts a handful in his mouth. “Whatever. I heard she’s going to Berkeley, so what’s the point of dating her now.”

“Grump,” Jihoon mumbles, turning around to keep his Chex Mix out of reach.

After that, Mingyu takes out his lunch—some strawberries and two turkey wraps cut into several pieces, all kept in Tupperware containers—and they dig in all at once. They don’t talk much as they eat; that’s until Soonyoung checks his phone and spends a good thirty seconds on it before asking, “Hey, what did you guys get on Barry’s quiz?”

Seokmin grabs his water bottle and starts slamming it repeatedly against the table. “OH, MY— Okay, honestly, Mrs. Barry needs to chill with her quizzes. Like, three parts to a quiz in one day? And one of them was a _teamwork_ quiz? What the fuck? My grade dropped and I have, like, a borderline _C_ right now.”

“I got A’s on all three parts,” Jihoon says nonchalantly, like it wasn’t a hard test at all, although the rest of his class would think otherwise. “What’d you get Mingyu?”

He shrugs and fills his cheeks with three cut-up strawberry pieces, mumbling an _I dunno_. He takes out his phone to check, and once he sees the two fat C’s on his grading list, he almost faints. “Oh, shit.”

Jihoon looks over Mingyu’s shoulder, down at his phone. “What— Oh, _yikes._ ” He winces back when Mingyu quickly turns it off and hides it. “Looks like our Valedictorian’s straight A streak is going to become straight A’s and– Oh! Look at that! A _B_ in Pre-Calc!”

Mingyu sneers. “Shut up.”

“I saw the percentage. The new grading system won’t make it easy to bring up an eighty-percent. If you get anything that isn’t an A on, well, _anything_ , then you can easily drop to a C.”

He groans, flails, then hides in his arms. “It’s only the first half of second quarter, asshole. I can bring it up before winter break.”

“Try telling your _dad_ that.”

“At least be a little supportive.” He props his chin over his arms. “He’s already giving me all this shit about choosing what to major in for college, and senior year practically just started. I think I have stress pimples growing over stress pimples.”

Jihoon shrugs, suggesting, “Find a tutor if you’re struggling that much.”

“You?”

“No, I’m trash at teaching. I can’t help you this time, Mingyu.”

He wails, and Soonyoung pats his back in a failed attempt at comforting him. “At least you have an A in every other class?”

“Not helping. No one at this school’s willing to tutor, and the only teacher that offers tutoring is a geometry teacher.” He chews his bottom lip, thinking. “It’ll take a miracle to find someone who can help.”

 

—

 

At the last hour of school, Mr. Carson sends Mingyu and Jihoon out to take pictures of the boy's PE class for the yearbook. They check out a camera, high five their teacher on their way out the classroom, then wordlessly walk to the gym. (Don’t let the “wordlessly” part scare you; there isn’t a lot to talk about when one person’s adjusting the camera settings, and the other is leading the way.) The sounds of Jordans and Nikes pounding and squeaking against the court’s floor greet them, and Mingyu winces a little. He hates hearing them.

There are two teams playing on the court: Green and blue. A little more than five boys from each team are in the game, while the others sit on the bleachers and wait for their turns, some hyping the members playing and some waiting for the dismissal bell to ring. It’s an easy setting to photograph; Mingyu and Jihoon won’t be spending a lot of time here.

“I’m going to interview the guy with the glasses and a big mole on his chin,” Jihoon informs, already jogging to a freshman doing the whip in front of everyone else.

Mingyu sets out to do what he has to do; he walks around the perimeter of the court for various angles and close-ups, occasionally adjusting the ISO and f-stop, either out of boredom or because he really has to. It’s not hard, and it definitely doesn’t take long to get a minimum of twenty-something pictures.

Once he’s convinced that he’s taken enough pictures, he seals the cap over the camera’s lens and walks up to Jihoon at the bottom of the bleachers. “Hey,” he says, “I think I’m done.”

“I am, too,” Jihoon replies, “just, hold on— What was your name again?"

The freshman answers, “Lenard Brooke.”

“Le-nard Brooke.” He types it in his phone, then waves and walks off. “‘Kay, thanks Lenard!” When he’s next to Mingyu, he asks, “Good stuff?”

“Good stuff. Good stuff?”

He shrugs. “The interviews are pretty shit, but whatever.” They start walking again, heading for the double doors to leave. “It doesn't affect us, anyway.”

Mingyu nods as his attention switches from Jihoon to the court. A tall, scrawny kid from the green team jumps and aims for the basket, throwing the ball with full force. It misses, hitting the rim instead and bouncing off— _hard._ Flying in the direction of the bleachers, Mingyu’s quick to leap and catch it, because it’s seconds away from hitting two students making their way up with a yellow banner. Now on the ground, he groans and slowly sits up. Jihoon asks, “Dude, are you okay?” but he pays no mind to his words because, as he turns to look at the people on the bleachers, his eyes make contact with dark ones of natural shine and short lashes. Jihoon follows Mingyu’s gaze. “Hey, you might’ve just saved Wonwoo and Jun from getting hit by a basketball, but you should’ve let it happen. I’d _love_ to see Jun injured, honestly.”

“That’s rude,” he grunts, letting go of the ball and rolling it in the direction of the blue team. “I knew you hated him, but damn.”

“You should try having almost all of your classes with that guy. I swear he was made with chicken grease and butter.”

Jihoon helps Mingyu up, and as the taller one checks his camera for any damages, they hear a loud, “Hey there, Jihoon!” and look at the bleachers again. Jihoon’s, “Shut up, Jun!” zones out of Mingyu’s ears as he makes eye contact with Wonwoo again, and it's incredibly awkward. He nods in greeting, but Wonwoo doesn’t do anything back. Instead, he picks up the banner and continues up the bleachers, and Jun scrambles as he tries to keep up with him.

“God, he’s annoying. And clingy. Truly my enemy.” Mingyu’s still watching Wonwoo. Jihoon pokes him and successfully catches his attention. “Yo, stop zoning out. You look like you’re about to drool.”

Mingyu wipes his mouth but finds no traces of saliva. When he sees the little eyebrow raise from his partner, he murmurs, “Let’s just go. We have enough pictures.”

 

—

 

“Hey, you got your GSA badge.”

Mingyu’s grinning widely as he approaches Seungkwan, his best friend after Jihoon, after the bell rings, near an empty lot that neighbors the building. They don't go to the same school—that’s easy to say with Mingyu’s casual attire and Seungkwan’s school uniform—but fate brought them together and somehow made them friends through unlikely events. No one really knows of Seungkwan, he’s only been a name mentioned in conversations but doesn't have a face for people to recognize, and it’s like having a secret—but Seungkwan isn't necessarily a secret; he’s just a mystery.

“Yup”—Seungkwan stands straight and salutes—“president of the Gay-Straight Alliance club reporting for duty.”

Mingyu salutes back. “Congrats, prez.”

“Are you busy today?” Seungkwan digs in his pocket, fetching out an Admit One ticket. “I got a free ticket to a carnival downtown.” He does a little dance with his shoulders suggestively. “They have Poutine and slushies.”

Mingyu makes a face of discomfort. “Don't do that dance, it’s embarrassing— Aaand of _course_ you do it some more, okay then.” Seungkwan laughs, stops dancing, then waits for Mingyu’s answer. “I’m already going to a party tonight, so I’ll have to bail.”

Comes the faltered smile and shoulders that slowly slump in dejection, and Mingyu feels guilty for choosing a party over a carnival with poutine and slushies. “Oh,” Seungkwan says, “that’s fine. Whose party?”

“Jeonghan’s.”

“I don’t like Jeonghan. He’s a bit of a jackass.”

“I see some good in him.” He smiles apologetically. “Maybe next time?”

Seungkwan doesn't answer for a while, looking away and thinking. “Don’t do anything stupid while you’re there. You’re a total dumbass around those guys.”

“Deal.”

Their meetup ends shortly after Seungkwan’s mom calls, asking him to pick up some bananas on his way home. Mingyu offers him a ride, but Seungkwan complains about his chubby thighs and says, “I need to work on my legs of steel; I’ll just walk!” as he leaves.

What a lie. Seungkwan loves his thighs.

“Wanna meet up tomorrow?” Mingyu shouts.

“We’ll see!”

The sun moves closer to the horizon as the world spins, casting glows of reds and violets and yellows against the surrounding mountains. By the time it’s completely dark, Mingyu’s dressed up for the party, nice jeans and a black jacket over a white shirt.

He’s not excited about the party. Jeonghan and the others, they’re not fun people, full offense. Admittedly, they’re all bullies surrounded by bad influences and no morals, and it’s kind of sad to think of. But Mingyu only ever hangs around them when he’s bored, sometimes stressed—a habit he wants to get rid of, yet never puts an effort into throwing away.

He gets a call from Jihoon on his way inside Jeonghan’s house. “Hello?”

_“Billiards, let’s go.”_

“I’m at a party.”

“You’re at a what? Wait, oh”—There’s a beat—“you’re with the headasses, aren't you.” It’s not a question and that’s what makes it funny, so Mingyu laughs. Jihoon doesn’t. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Come on, Ji.”

_“Don’t ‘come on’ me— Shit, that sounded wrong. But, yeah, don’t say that. Don’t make me sound like the one who misunderstands; you know they're bad.”_

“Just one time.”

_“Mingyu, please.”_

“I won't do anything bad.”

_“Whatever.”_

“Jihoon?”

_Beep._

Of course.

Mingyu wants to feel upset about being cut off, but he can't and doesn't have the right to, because Jihoon’s right: these people fucking suck. He’s already here, though, standing at the front door, so there's no turning back. He should've just went to the carnival with Seungkwan.

He has no friends here. There isn't anyone he knows well enough to talk to, and he doesn't even know where Jeonghan is. He also looks ridiculous standing by the front door, looking as if he doesn't know what to do (he doesn't), so he grabs a drink from the cooler and sits at the kitchen island.

Jun shows up the same time Mingyu sits down, carrying a soda can to the other side of the island. He grins lazily at the person he’s approaching, his hair a stunning mess and his too-big, faded blue flannel covering his hands and reaching past his ass. He looks no different than how he usually looks at school—the hobo-ish “I could care less about you, grandma” style is his thing; it’s what draws so many people to him—so Mingyu feels completely neutral seeing him here.

Sitting next to Jun, however, is Wonwoo, and he looks _really good,_ like, Greaser from the 50’s good, messy gelled hair and leather jacket next to him and everything. The only thing that’s missing, really, is a cigarette between his teeth, but Mingyu doubts the guy even smokes.

“When should I pick you up?” Mingyu hears him ask Jun, his question mixing with the clink of the can as it meets the table. Eavesdropping is bad, but it might be the only good thing coming from Mingyu’s night, so he does it anyway. “By the way, I’m washing out all this gel when I leave. I told you I don’t plan on staying.”

Jun replies, “Ten. And forget about what you planned. Just stay here.”

“Why? I don’t like parties.”

“What _do_ you like then?” But Jun already knows what Wonwoo’s answer will be, so at the same time they say, “Plants, cats, books, and autumn.” He adds, “I know. Fake hipster.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Please stay! _Pleeeeaassee…_ ”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s cancerous here. It’s just hot and smells like someone mixed armpit sweat with weed. No one here’s having actual fun; they’re just Snapchatting the people who’re playing beer pong and chugging bottles of _vodka._ They aren’t even playing beer pong right.” Mingyu shrugs and tilts his head in agreement. Wonwoo’s right. The beer pong dudes are just straight up drinking, and it’s not even a game at this point. “Do you honestly think it's even worth it?”

Jun waves his Coke and tells him, “I mean, come on, you gotta put yourself out there. Be freakin’ Bon Jovi for the night and play for us.” He pulls the tab— _crack!_ —and downs some of his soda, belching. “Grab a drink and get wasted.”

“Thanks for the tip, but”—Wonwoo reaches for his jacket and hooks it over his arm. The sound of the zipper clinking against his belt echoes—“I play the ukulele, not guitar. I’ll be okay.” Then he winks, clicks his tongue and walks away, out the door and to his van.

Mingyu’s impressed. He’s never heard Wonwoo say more than a couple sentences before, not counting class presentations, and it’s actually entertaining to hear him speak with nothing but sarcasm slapped onto every syllable. That’s a side of Wonwoo he never knew existed.

As expected, the night goes on and Mingyu’s bored, drunk and has a headache from the smell of marijuana that huffs out after every breath the girl beside him takes. He’s always been sensitive to smells, can’t even stand jasmine and lavender, and the smell of marijuana is the reason why he hasn’t tried smoking it yet. As the scent seems to get stronger and hotter and closer, Mingyu gets up to sit on the couch, grabbing a bottle of something—he has no clue what—on his way there.

Someone (Mingyu doesn't know if he knows them or not; he can't tell) yells, “Chug it!” so he swings his bottle up, lets it all travel down his throat and linger in his stomach for a while, wincing when it’s all gone. People cheer, some whistle, and he starts to feel himself teeter in different directions.

The world seems to turn at a slow, blurry 180, but there’s only one person in focus in his eyes. It’s someone with auburn hair, apple cheeks and a disappointed gaze, standing at the corner of the room in a navy blue school uniform. As Mingyu lifts his head up, he blinks and squints, struggling to think clearly.

“Seungkwan?”

 

—

 

Mingyu doesn’t recall driving himself home and only remembers stumbling through the front door of his house like a mess. He feels his sister Minah poke his side, telling him to answer their dad, who’s looking at him warily. “Mingyu?” he says.

Mingyu grins sloppily. “Hey, _daaad_.”

“Are you okay?”

“No,” he slurs, “I have horrible friends. I need to spend more time with Jihoon, Seok _—hic!—_ Seokmin, Soonyoung—”

Minah sniffs him and winces, her face soured in disgust. “Why do you smell so bad? You smell like a skunk that dunked itself in acid.”

“Skunk?” Their dad squints as he gives Mingyu a closer look. “Mingyu, did you smoke?”

“ _No_ ”—He giggles—“but I did drink! Did you know that beer is super gross and yeasty?”

Minah mixes a spoonful of condensed milk in her tea then sips it, looking away to hide her grin. Their dad asks, in his terrifyingly calm voice, “So you’re drunk?”

“No! I’m sober!”

“Prove it.” He points at the clock on the wall. “Tell the time.”

“Okay.” Mingyu walks up to the clock, looks at it, and then says, “No! I’m sober!”

Tea splashes on Minah’s face as she laughs into her mug, choking and reaching for a napkin. “Oh, my God, he actually told the time. He’s so screwed.”

A series of shouts, guilt, and disappointment follow after, but, long story short, Mingyu’s relationship with his dad, friends and everyone else in his life flip completely the next morning, and this part of his life seems like the only thing he’ll ever truly remember, because it’s what changes his life for the better in the worse way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](http://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)


	3. Uber?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mingyu chooses riding with Wonwoo over taking the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating last weekend! i was taking hoco pics for my friends and spent sunday doing homework. i managed to write 2k yesterday and 1k today tho so PHEW relief.

Mingyu’s dad doesn't look at him the next morning. Not a glance, not a grunt, not a thought is spent on him as he enters the kitchen. Minah’s scrolling through Twitter on the couch, already finished with her breakfast, and his parents are both going through paperwork. No one seems to care that he's there. On a good note, his mom at least tells him that there are three more strudels in the freezer that he can toast.

He’s in _big_ trouble, if that really has to be said. Returning home to a strict Asian household intoxicated, mindlessly admitting to your dad that beer is disgusting, telling the _clock_ you aren't drunk instead of saying it’s 11:37—it’s inevitable for your family to look at you like a big fuck up. He can handle being told a hundred times that he needs to get himself together; the silent treatment is killing him, though. He wants his mom to say good morning, he wants Minah to ask for a ride to school, and he wants his dad to pat his back before heading out the door for good luck. But, again, he screwed up and everything sucks right now.

To summarize what happened: Apparently a mysterious, unknown person was nice enough to take Mingyu home; he got his car privileges taken away, which means he has to take the damned bus until he graduates; Minah didn't actually care that he was drunk at first, but that was until he started to pester her about how he’s “way smarter than her”; he has a curfew now—10:00 PM on weekdays and 9:00 PM on the weekends. Some of that night remains a blur, as the rest taunts him for the rest of the week and probably forever. You’re a fucking dumbass, he tells himself repeatedly.

The following Thursday seems to arrive slower that Mingyu anticipates. His family’s still giving him the good ol’ silent treatment, his friends— _especially_ Seungkwan and Jihoon—ignore him completely, and his grade in math continues to drop. It’s overwhelming. He can't adjust to all this isolation and sense of poor academic capability, and it’s stressing him out.

The next time Mingyu gets some alone time with Jihoon, it's in journalism for some yearbook shots of fashion design’s junior class. When they leave Mr. Carson’s classroom, Mingyu takes it as his chance to talk. “Hey”—Jihoon walks faster—“Ji, come on, please let me talk to you.”

“I don’t want to hear you; your voice fucking annoys the crap out of me now.”

 _Ouch_ . “Jihoon, we need to talk this out. We _always_ talk things out.” Mingyu’s long legs make it easy for him to catch up, but he can already feel sweat start to build at his hairline because Jihoon’s moving at a _really_ fast pace. “I haven’t had anyone else to talk to about this, man.”

Jihoons stops and takes a moment to catch his breath before turning, glaring at Mingyu. “Listen, idiot, I don't know what’s gotten into you, but it seems like you’ve forgotten what those little pricks did to us.” His gaze pierces through Mingyu’s, serious. “They spread a rumor about Seokmin and Soonyoung, our _friends_ , and it ruined everything they had. Did you know that Seokmin tells me his problems now because he doesn't feel like he can tell Soonyoung anymore?” Mingyu gulps and shakes his head. “Well, he does. Janice and Soonyoung aren't even the same after that, either. I feel like I’m the only one bridging between these guys. Help me out and _get. Yourself. Together._ Stay away from them.”

He’s frustrated, and Mingyu knows he is because he looks like he’s close to crying; his voice gets quieter and his eyes glisten and it makes Mingyu feel so guilty. He should've played billiards or spent the night with Seungkwan instead, because Jihoon wouldn't be shaming him if he had just _listened._ They're best friends, though, and Mingyu knows Jihoon’s the only person who could watch him crumble and still stay by his side.

“Is that all?” Mingyu asks.

Jihoon faces up to sink his tears back in, blinking. “I need to say one more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Fuck you.”

“Done?” Jihoon nods. Mingyu grins. “Thanks, I deserved all of that.”

“Can I, like, get a hug? It’ll be weird if you don’t give me one.”

Mingyu’s arms wrap around Jihoon’s small shoulders comfortingly, stroking his artificial blond hair. “Sorry,” he says.

“Dumbass.”

“I know. It wasn't even a fun party anyway.”

“Jun was there, so that’s how I know the party was boring.” He jabs Mingyu’s side, forcing him to let go and make an inhumane, strangled sound. “I asked for a hug; I didn’t say I wanted to cuddle, fuckin’ weirdo.”

Mingyu rubs the spot, murmuring, “You always ruin the moment. Demon.”

So that’s basically how Mingyu and Jihoon make up after holding grudges against each other: Jihoon rants, Mingyu lets him rant, Jihoon says something that usually translates to “you’re dumb” or “screw you”, they hug, then Jihoon physically harms Mingyu to look less soft. It isn't repetitive because it’s rare thing, Mingyu and Jihoon being on bad terms. They understand the system and they get the rules of friendship, but they aren't afraid to rebel a bit and do things their own way, because that’s how they bond—it’s what makes them who they are. So then they laugh, interfusing an exchange of happy, warm breaths, just before Mingyu puts Jihoon in a headlock, screws up his hair, then chases after him when he runs away.

That, in all truth, is friendship in one of its purest states.

 

—

 

“Mingyu’s here,”

Jihoon pulls the chair closest to Janice and sits down. He looks up at Mingyu and tells him to do the same, but he doesn't listen and awkwardly stands instead, unsure if he’s welcome. No one’s giving him the death glare or anything extremely intimidating; however, the looks on Soonyoung, Seokmin and Janice’s faces make Mingyu feel like he should leave.

“Sit down,” Jihoon says. He drags a chair out with his foot. “It’s fine.”

Still, Mingyu asks, “Can I sit here?” and points at the rustic chair. They all nod. “Thanks.”

“Where’s my latte?” Jihoon asks, looking around to find his cup. Soonyoung gives it to him, smiles when Jihoon says thank you, and then stuffs a bite-sized cookie in his mouth as he sits back again. “Mingyu says he’s sorry.”

Soonyoung’s chewing slows. “Oh.”

There’s some silence that dawns on them, minus the sound of the barista, Seungcheol, steaming some milk behind the counter. Jihoon nudges Mingyu, urging him to say something. “Huh? Oh! Y-yeah, I’m sorry. Like, really sorry. Jeonghan wasn't even there. The other guys were, but they’re not fun. Not that _Jeonghan’s_ any better, but. Like. Sorry. Really, really sorry.” Janice throws a cookie at his face. “I deserved that.”

Seokmin surprisingly takes the initiative to speak for everyone else. “We all kind of hate you right now for— Hi, Yuna!”

They all turn their heads and see Yuna approaching the counter, passing them briefly. With her whole body, she turns as she says, “Hey, Seokmin!” Then she smiles and turns again, her knee-length skirt spinning.

“She said hey.” Seokmin grabs a handful of his shirt, the part over his heart, and fakes a heart attack. “So stunning.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “The only person who can make you go off topic mid-sentence is Yuna. Just ask her out; it’s obvious she’s into you, too.”

“That would be like Beauty dating the freakin’ Beast, and this beast doesn't turn into an attractive man with luscious hair.” He sits up and props his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands. “I’m okay with admiring from afar.”

Janice snaps directly in front of his face, and the sound echoes in the little cubicle their table is built in. Seokmin flinches, knocks over a stack of napkins, then suffers the hard slap on the head from Jihoon. “You were talking about Mingyu, Seokmin,” Soonyoung reminds.

“Oh, shit, right.” His eyes are still on Yuna, and his lips twitch upward when she tucks a section of hair behind her ear and offers Seungcheol a kind smile. “Yuna’s distracting me with her beauty. Soonyoung, you go.”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue. “Young love. How blind and cringy.” He takes a deep breath as he switches his gaze to Mingyu, sucking his teeth to get chewed up cookie bits out. “We won't be hard on you, bro. We’re sort of just surprised to know that you still spend time with them after”—He coughs—“the, uh, thing.”

“Jeonghan said it’d be a stress reliever for me,” Mingyu admits. He covers his face and groans. “I’m honestly so desperate to get this burden off my shoulders that I actually caved in and went. I can’t even drive until graduation because of what I did.”

Janice’s jaw drops. “Whoa, really? Holy damn, Mingyu, what did you even do to get all that taken away?”

“Someone took me home and I was drunk.” He struggles to say the next part, embarrassed. “I— Okay, don’t make fun of me—”

“We’ll so make fun of you,” Jihoon interrupts.

Mingyu glares at him. “—but I told my dad I wasn't drunk, so he told me to prove it by telling the time, and I—”

Soonyoung grins. “You literally told the clock you weren't drunk, didn't you?”

“Yes.” Everyone laughs, and Jihoon almost falls out of his chair. “Shut up! I don't even know how I thought if that!”

“So you’re _that_ type of drunk,” Seokmin says.

“Is it really a surprise?” Jihoon wheezes, his laughter dying. “I always knew you’d be loud and dumb when you’re drunk. Like a kid.”

Janice says, “He's already loud and dumb.”

They all laugh again.

Everything’s just fine. No one’s mad at Mingyu anymore, and all are forgiven, and that’s what makes him feel less worthless. It’s relieving.

As they talk over coffee and boba, Jihoon spends most of the time on his phone, typing and swiping, zoning everyone out. The others ask him to put his phone down a few times, and his response always goes like, “Shhh. Sh. I’m busy.” Soonyoung complains for a few seconds after their second try, but then he eats another cookie and he’s okay again.

By the time Mingyu finishes his taro slush, Jihoon yelps a sudden, “Ah-ha!” and startles the table. Mingyu grumbles as he picks up the cookie he dropped on the table. “What the heck, man?”

“Oh, don’t you mean ‘thanks, Jihoon, you’re the greatest friend ever’?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been saving your ass far too many times this year.” Jihoon takes the cookie in Mingyu’s hand and eats it, ignoring the latter’s wail of protest. “I found out how you can get a ride to and from school without taking the bus.”

Mingyu’s palms slam flat against the table as he leans closer. “Wait, forreal? How?”

“Wonwoo, that’s how.” Jihoon uses his finger to push away Mingyu’s face. “You know the guy you were, like, obsessed with in freshman year?”

“I wasn’t obsessed.”

“HA, okay. Anyway, he told me he’s willing to give you rides as long as you pay for gas.”

Mingyu hesitates, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes squinting. “Okay, I’m, like, over ninety-percent sure that Wonwoo hates me. Why would he agree to it?”

“What do you mean?”

“He ignores my questions and _glares_ at me.” He shivers. “Man, Wonwoo can be so cold. It’s scary. Looking at him is like seeing Halloween in a human body.”

Seokmin shakes his plastic cup, swirling the tapioca pearls inside. “Rude.”

“You try talking to that guy!” He looks at Jihoon again. “This sounds weird. We’re opposites; I’m loud and always smile, and he’s quiet and mysterious. It’ll be awkward.”

“Okay, but would you rather take the bus or ride with Wonwoo?”

His answer is already decided before he even says it.

 

—

 

The next afternoon, Mingyu sees Wonwoo waiting for him at the student drop-off. He leans forward to look at the introvert, grinning. “Uh, hey.” Wonwoo’s face doesn't really change in expression, but his eyes seem to glow as a way to say hello. “So, uh, you’re okay with the ride thing, right?”

It’s weird, but Wonwoo looks kind of constipated, like he’s physically forcing himself to do this. “Yeah, I pass by your house on my way home.”

“Oh”—Wonwoo leads Mingyu to his van and unlocks the door, telling him to shake the handle and yank it open—“so how do you know where I live?”

“Hm?”

They’re sitting in the car now, side-by-side at the front. Their weight makes the vehicle teeter a little and the air freshener hanging at the rearview mirror swings. “Well,” Mingyu grunts as he closes the door, “you said you usually pass my house on your way home. So, like, how do you know that?”

“Oh, I’m the one who took you home last week. The party, you know.” Wonwoo sticks his key in the ignition, twisting it a couple times to turn on the car. Mingyu smiles to himself when he hears the engine fart. “You couldn't drive like that, so I took you home.”

“Ah, so _you're_ the mystery man,” he says, nodding. “Well, thanks, Wonwoo.”

“It wasn't my idea.” _Oh._ “I didn't want to drive you home; you looked like you were about to throw up, and the last thing I needed was puke in the back seat.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And that’s all they say until the next morning, when Wonwoo waits in front of his driveway, eating a bagel with strawberry cream cheese. “Hi” and “Hey” is all they spare each other, and Mingyu wants to thank him for the ride, but he feels too awkward to squeeze anything out. So he just sits in the passenger seat, stiff, stone, thinking of things to say but saying nothing.

That goes on for the whole week and some of the week after. At school, it’s like they don't know each other at all—they are, just like before, strangers. Square one. Nobodies to each other. And Mingyu doesn't necessarily have a big problem with that, but he just feels awkward about it. And bad. Bad because he feels like he’s just using Wonwoo as his own, personal Uber driver (which is technically true, but also isn't).

Things start to change, though. Today, Wonwoo seems to be more comfortable around Mingyu. Okay, not really. He’s still quiet; however, his cold stares are replaced with friendly eye smiles, and, for once, Wonwoo is actually the first to say hi when they meet up after Mingyu’s journalism training session. Before Mingyu can return the greeting, it starts pouring. No warning, not a single drop that tells them it’ll rain. The water just falls at once.

They take a couple steps back to hide under the concrete platform of the staircase. It’s a bit dark, but they’re still dry and that’s all they’re really going for.

“Well,” Mingyu sighs, “looks like the rain’s gonna hold us back.”

“Yup.”

“You still don't have a problem with dropping me off? It’s raining pretty hard.”

Wonwoo shrugs, and the gesture translates to,  _Honestly, I don't give a damn._ “It’s cool. My mom’s not home right now, anyway.”

“Mmm-then where is she?” Mingyu asks, connecting his hum and the first word.

_Boom! Crack!_

“At work.”

“What’s her job?”

It gets louder.

“She’s a housekeeper,” he says over the rain, pulling up his hood. “Yeah, she’s the supervisor.”

“And your dad?”

Wonwoo laughs a little; not to make fun of Mingyu, but because it’s not a common thing to ask him. “My mom’s a single parent. Never married anyone.”

When he asks about Mingyu’s parents, Mingyu suddenly feels spoiled and ungrateful and pretty shitty, to be honest. His family's complete—a mom, a dad, a sister, himself, and soon a cat (which he never agreed to have, but whatever)—and it’s almost like he’s only one-upping himself if he talks about it. He doesn't want to sound better than Wonwoo.

“Uh, my dad’s a business guy. Pretty stiff. And my mom’s a world history teacher at my sister’s school. She’s a vegan.”

Wonwoo laughs again, and he’s supposed to do that because it's hilariously ironic. A vegan world history teacher discusses the blood and gore of war and battle. Ha.

Actually, they're pretty messed up for laughing.

“So what’s that like?” Wonwoo asks. “Having parents who’re in, like, two opposite worlds. A business guy and a vegan teacher. It doesn't seem like there's a lot of time to spend together.”

Mingyu shrugs. “There isn’t, honestly. Our family’s pretty awkward, although we try not to be.” He waits before he asks, “How ‘bout you and your mom?”

“It’s personal.” His nose collects like a used candy wrapper. “I don’t do personal. But she works hard and I want to be like her someday.”

“A housekeeping supervisor—?”

“No,” Wonwoo laughs, “I just want to work hard. I don't want things to be too easy because that’s boring.”

“What do you want to be?”

“A psychologist.”

Mingyu grins. “Let me guess: You love writing, too.”

“Let me guess,” Wonwoo copies, “you don’t know what you want to be yet.”

“We’re even.”

Another thunderous crack makes them jump and realize they’re still standing on campus, under something that barely shields them both from the rain. To avoid getting caught by admin, they spontaneously run across the quad, all the way to Wonwoo’s van. Water splashes as they step in and out of puddles, soaking their jeans, and Mingyu yelps whenever raindrops fall in his eyes. The voice of a bald man—“Hey, you two!”—and they only run faster, almost slipping on the concrete. “Move faster!” and “ _You_ move faster!” and “We’re going to get caught, AH!” and “Why is admin so fucking scary, what the fuck!” are the phrases they trade back and forth, along with screaming and other noises that can't be found in the English dictionary.

Finally, they reach the van and Wonwoo unlocks it, buckling his seatbelt while simultaneously trying to get it started. “Hurry up!” and “I’m trying!” they say. A loud whir, a fart, a few hiccups. The van’s on and they scream hallelujah as Wonwoo drives out of the parking lot.

“Do you think he saw the van?” and “No, I think he gave up halfway through,” they say, sighing in relief at the end. Two yellow lights. Three red. Four green. Wonwoo pulls up in front of Mingyu’s house before the rain calms. It sounds like something breaks when the van stops, but that's just how it is.

Mingyu can hear the rain fall to the ground, the top of Wonwoo’s van, the used-to-be green leaves that somehow lose contrast underneath the darkness. Heavy breaths are shared as the excitement belittles, and Mingyu can't stop smiling. “That was fun,” he huffs. He pulls his wet hair back and turns his head to look at Wonwoo. In just a beat, he suddenly wants to be more. He wants to better himself and get back on track and win all those photography contests he didn't place first in and live his life and more, because as Wonwoo pulls his hood down and looks at Mingyu, he remembers everything that happened a couple minutes ago, and his heart decides for him.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo agrees, “that was great. I don't do stuff like that a lot.”

Then he smiles.

And Mingyu is sad.

 

—

 

It’s the middle of the quarter when Mingyu’s math grade drops to a high C, something he’s never gotten in his life. He sulks over it the whole day, refusing to even eat the cookies Janice bakes and offers him—and he fucking loves her baking. His mood worsens as the day goes on, and he blames his A day classes for that because _why do his A day classes suck so much?_ And the fact that each class is about an hour and a half each makes them seem to drag longer than they should be. It sucks, it really does. Fuck you, Kent Academy.

When Mingyu sits in Wonwoo’s van later in the day and shoves his backpack down, he looks at him and blinks. Wonwoo has a mouthful of In-N-Out, animal style sauce on his lips. He looks as if he completely forgot he was supposed to drop Mingyu off.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

“Uh”—Mingyu raises an eyebrow—“hey. Did you get that during free period?”

Wonwoo stops chewing and slowly says, “No…”

“I’m not going to ask for a bite, so don't worry,” Mingyu exhales, leaning back and bumping his head against the headrest. “Not in the mood for a burger.”

Happily, Wonwoo continues chewing and says, “Okay,” ignoring how upset and pissy the latter is, and it disappoints Mingyu a bit.

He finishes his burger, takes a long sip of Coke, then heads for Mingyu’s house. They don't talk—not out of the ordinary—but he decides to play the radio at a low hum—definitely out of the ordinary—and it’s calming. A couple blocks away from Mingyu’s house, Wonwoo glances at him and notices how bothered he looks. “You look like you have something on your mind.”

“I have a lot.”

“Are you going to talk about it? I need a warning before you do.”

“No”—He sneaks one of Wonwoo’s fries in his mouth—“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“Actually, yeah, let me rant for like ten seconds.”

“Knock yourself out.” Mingyu takes a deep breath, and Wonwoo holds a hand out to shut him up. Mingyu chokes on the breath that abruptly gets trapped in his throat. “Okay, okay, just summarize everything; I don't need your whole life story.”

But Mingyu starts to ramble anyway, totally opposite to what Wonwoo told him to do. He starts from the day his grade started dropping in pre-calc, trailing off to “losing” all those photography contests he entered, and going on about how his dad’s the only person who’s still pissed off for what he did after that party.

“So”—Wonwoo slowly nods as he tries to collect what he’s technically _supposed_ to give advice on—“basically, you need a tutor?”

“Kind of.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve had A’s in math all four years of high school and counting.” Red light. “I could try tutoring you.”

Mingyu’s jaw hangs—literally—because, _wow_ he did not expect that. At all. Not a bit. Help from Wonwoo? No way. “Really? Are you sure that’s okay?” _Being tutored by Wonwoo Jeon. Imagine that._ “I don't know. You seem busy with music club and I have journalism…”

“How did you know I was in music club?”

Right. Wonwoo never personally told him about being in a music club. Mingyu’s cheeks redden, and he shies it away by tugging his hood up.

“The banner in the gym,” he answers, his voice muffled by the fabric of his sweater, “I just assumed.”

As Wonwoo thinks, there's silence, but it’s not awkward this time. This time it’s comfortable. This time Mingyu doesn't feel like he needs to say anything. This time he knows Wonwoo’s going to reply.

“I’ve never tutored before,” Wonwoo says, “but I’m willing to work things out”

A green light. An exhaled laugh from Wonwoo. A lot of loud ones from Mingyu. And, finally, Mingyu’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it seemed kinda unclear when i wrote it, but i wanted to keep it as an implied thing, so i just wanna point this out: when it says "then he smiles. and mingyu is sad," it's bc mingyu realizes wonwoo hasn't done anything particularly exciting before.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)


	4. The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Wonwoo becomes the subject of Mingyu's photography contest, Mingyu realizes a lot in one day: 1. He really doesn't understand pre-calc, 2. Wonwoo's gay, 3. His pumpkin carving skills suck, and 4. Wonwoo talks a little too much when he's angry.

As the days grow colder, Mingyu begins to add hoodies and jackets to his daily wear, religiously coat his lips with lip balm to avoid dryness, and carry a pair of gloves wherever he goes. Although he’s more fond of summer—fruity drinks, no school, longer days and warm nights—he’s always loved the way the earth would crunch beneath his feet in late fall and all of winter, the feeling of breathing deeper air and letting it take over the rest of him. And when he’d laugh, he wouldn't feel interrupted; the world lets him be happy. The cold season is beautiful when you think of it that way.

What else is beautiful? That calming, take-me-home type of sound coming from a person strumming a ukulele somewhere in the upstairs C building, echoing in the vacant hallways where no one is present and no one can hear. Mingyu searches for its source, peeking through the windows of empty classrooms he’s familiar with and others he can't recognize. At room C200, the door is cracked open. He looks through the little opening, squinting.

Sitting on one of the tables crisscross-applesauce is a lone Wonwoo picking and strumming and chucking the strings of his little ukulele. The way he’s seated makes him look only scarcely larger than his instrument, and Mingyu’s lips tug at the thought of it. He presses it against his chest, pushing down on his white hoodie with black drawstrings. Mingyu makes the spontaneous decision to walk in after a few more moments of staring.

“Hey,” he greets. The music stops abruptly as Wonwoo looks up at him, “I heard you playing in the hall. You’re really good.”

“Thanks.”

Mingyu laughs in an attempt to lighten the awkward tension between them. “What song was it?”

Slowly, almost turtle-like, Wonwoo rests his ukulele on his lap, the strings facing the ceiling. “I wrote it myself,” he answers. “It’s not done yet.”

“I like it.” Mingyu approaches Wonwoo, sitting beside him. Up close, he can see the eyeliner he’s wearing, purposefully smudged and dewy. “Have you ever thought of being featured in the yearbook for it?”

“You journalism kids are always little pests when it comes to doing stuff for the yearbook, huh?”

Mingyu laughs because it’s true; people always avoid the journalism students to avoid getting interviewed, to avoid all the attention. “It’s just a suggestion, Wonwoo. I’m not going to ask for an interview— _yet_.”

“Noted the emphasis on the last word.”

Another laugh. “I’m just sayin’.”

There’s this thing that Mingyu does whenever he’s nervous, fed up or really awkward: He smiles too much, laughs unnecessarily loud, gets touchy, and says things he half means to say. Right now, in this weird space shared between an introvert and an extrovert, this is literally what he’s doing. His smile stretches painfully, he wants to cover his mouth to hide his flashy teeth, and his laughs come out flirty. Wonwoo doesn't respond much to his actions, so Mingyu tries to trap everything in a bottle.

“Shouldn't you be at lunch?” Wonwoo asks, lips barely moving along with his words.

“Shouldn't _you?_ ”

“I ate with Ms. Kang today,” he answers.

“Why aren't you with everyone else?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “There isn't a lot to do in the lunchroom. I like being alone.”

Mingyu gives it some thought, wondering how anyone could ever enjoy so much isolation away from people. Sure, high school students suck, but they’re kind of _supposed_ to suck. They make mistakes, complain about things that won't matter in the future, admire friends that they’ll most likely forget in years to come, swear like they’re spending their last breaths—that’s why they really, really suck. High school students spend most of their lives learning, though, and apply what they’ve gained in the future, such as never smoking another cigarette again or saving the $100 in their wallet instead of spending it on shoes that they'll probably never wear anyway. They learn from and with their friends, enemies and fellow classmates, so how’s Wonwoo able to do that if locks himself away?

“Why do you like being alone so much?”

Shrugging again, Wonwoo answers, “I’d rather be lonely than cry over bad friendships and breakups.” He gives Mingyu a quick once-over, expression remaining flat and still as usual. “I don't know, I’m not sure what your kind does, but I usually do the opposite of what you guys do.”

Mingyu barks a curt laugh, almost sarcastic. “My _kind?_ If we’re really talking about ‘kinds of people,' then I guess it’s safe to say that I don't get you either.” Pride fills his chest when Wonwoo smiles a little. “So the stuff my _kind_ does; are those scarier to you? Opposed to, like, being alone.”

Although he's smiling, Wonwoo looks surprised. “What, they aren’t for you?”

“I mean, of course they’re scary, but I don’t think of it.” Mingyu leans back and supports his weight with one hand. “You know, not knowing how things will turn out and only paying attention to now than what happens three minutes later. I don’t worry too much about attachment.”

Wonwoo’s lips purse in thought as he looks at Mingyu, solving the four-piece puzzle that he is. He’s transparent as his intentions and desires and parts of his life are easily found in his eyes, while Wonwoo’s are trapped inside him, jailed. “Well, maybe you should,” he says, “sometimes worrying can save you from all the hurt and scarring.”

Mingyu’s grin fades a bit as Wonwoo looks down, tracing the carvings on his ukulele with his fingernail. _Who hurt you_ , Mingyu wants to say, but doesn't because he’s talked to Wonwoo enough to know that he wouldn't answer personal questions like that. Instead, he reaches out to take Wonwoo’s ukulele, their fingers brushing in the process, and asks if he could teach him a song.

Things are less tense after that. Wonwoo teaches Mingyu three chords—C, G, and A—and laughs hard when Mingyu says, “My fatass fingers keep pressing down on two strings instead of one, what the fuck.” That laugh, it’s so much like his freshman year icebreaker laugh, and something about it makes Mingyu’s chest feel warm and enhances his dull spots. Laughs like Wonwoo’s have that effect on people who love happiness.

When the bell rings, students emerge from the lunchroom and fill the quad as they head to their last period classes. Wonwoo’s first to get up and collect his things and leave, and Mingyu hurriedly stalks after.

“Tutoring today?” Wonwoo asks.

“Yeah.” He reaches for the front pocket of his Jansport backpack, struggling to unzip it as they walk. “Also, I have the money, so—”

“Give it to me after school.” Wonwoo opens the exit, looking back at Mingyu as he makes his way out. “My next class is in the B building. Later, Mingyu.”

Mingyu slows until he makes a complete stop, watching Wonwoo leave through the windows. “Oh, uh, later! I’ll— yeah, okay, bye. Have fun in your next class!”

Getting himself together and adjusting his backpack over his shoulders, Mingyu turns. He heads for journalism, a slight bounce to his feet, and when Jihoon sees him walk through the door and asks, “Why are you all smiley?” Mingyu shrugs and bites his lip to make it go away. It doesn't, though, because all he can think of is making Wonwoo laugh, hearing Wonwoo laugh, and seeing Wonwoo smile genuinely for the first time in a long while.

 

—

 

At tutoring, Mingyu’s closest to the largest window in the library as Wonwoo sits opposite to him. Wonwoo has already gone through a complex problem, in-depth and step-by-step, and it seems like he completely understands while Wonwoo’s there to guide him. By himself, however, he struggles, trying not to show it. _I can do this. It’s not that hard._

“Mingyu”—His head snaps up and Wonwoo looks at him carefully—“you okay? Do you need help?”

 _Yes._ “No, I’m fine. I just messed up and, you know, I’m trying to find out what I did wrong.”

“Are you sure you can do it yourself? Here, let me see what you did—”

“No!” Wonwoo flinches and slowly sits back down. “I can do it, I swear.”

He can’t. He needs help, but he doesn't want Wonwoo to think he’s dumb. And he doesn't want to be a burden. And he wants to at least _try_. _Is this a sine or cosine? And how’s this supposed to be graphed? The one with a squiggly line, right? Fuck, they all look like squiggly lines._

At the second to last question, Mingyu says that his brain is too fried to complete his worksheet, so he gives his paper to Wonwoo and lets him grade it. The amount of times Wonwoo’s red pen makes a little dash on the paper, followed by little-written things, makes Mingyu’s barely standing confidence cripple one question at a time.

“You got all but three wrong,” Wonwoo sighs, returning the paper.

Mingyu groans as he leans all the way forward and smacks his forehead against the wooden table. “I’m so sorry, sensei. I _get it_ , but at the same time, I _don't._ ”

“It’s okay”—Wonwoo starts packing his things—“you don't have to be good at everything, Mingyu.”

“I know, I know, but— Hey, where you goin'?” Mingyu hurries to keep up, shoving his worksheets and notebooks in his backpack. Wonwoo puts his messenger bag across his chest, knuckles loose around the strap, waiting. “Don’t we have half an hour left?”

“You can’t seem to focus,” Wonwoo says, and Mingyu smiles sheepishly, jaw flexing and body sinking into itself. He murmurs a small _sorry, sensei,_ then zips his bag, “so I’m taking you out.”

Mingyu chokes on air before asking, “Wait, so, like, a date?”

“No? I was just going to get us chips from the gas station.”

His cheeks redden, bright and obvious, and he tries hiding it by looking down at the DSLR that he now has around his neck. “Oh, right. No homo.”

Wonwoo looks at Mingyu, skeptical. “Did Jun tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m gay.”

Mingyu’s looks at him, shocked, and his eyes widen in realization that he probably said the wrong things. “You’re gay?”

“So you _didn't_ know?” Wonwoo shakes his head and waves his hands flippantly to say: _I give up, what’s done has been done._ “Never mind. Now you know, I guess. But FYI”—He points at Mingyu, forced to look up. Damn you, height difference—“just because I’m gay, it does _not_ mean I’m into every guy I see. So don’t start to, like, act weird around me.”

“I wasn't going to make any assumptions,” Mingyu murmurs, a bit terrified of the way Wonwoo’s staring at him. If eyes could stab other eyes, this is what it’d be like.

Wonwoo huffs a few strands of hair away from his face. “Good. It gets annoying when people do that.”

“So…” Mingyu’s eyes wander to keep them busy and not make contact with Wonwoo’s, “should we go now, or—?

“Yeah.” Wonwoo spends another long second eyeing the photographer, breaking him down even more than he already has. “Dammit, you made me do it again.”

“Do what?”

“You made me say things I didn't want to say.”

Mingyu pouts. “Hey, that’s not my fault.”

“It _technically_ is.” _Is not!_ “Maybe you should stop asking questions and I’ll stop answering. I’m your driver and tutor, so I don't think we can be friends.”

“I mean, you just told me you're gay,” he drags out, “so you kind of have to be my friend to keep me under watch.”

“I’m not closeted,” Wonwoo deadpans.

“You made it sound like you are.”

“I just keep it to myself until someone brings it up. If someone asks then I say yes.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, but— Oh, yeah, sure.” Wonwoo moves away when a study group asks to sit at the table they’re standing next to. “—but you mentioned a date, so I assumed you were, like, making fun of the gay thing.”

They start walking and make their way down the glass staircase. “If it makes you feel any better”—Mingyu’s shoulders raise, drop, then straighten—“I am undecided.”

“About what?”

“Well, aside from _everything_ ”—He makes a face by crinkling his nose and turning his eyes into slits—“we were discussing the topic of sexuality. So, yeah, I’m undecided about that.”

Wonwoo’s lips press into a thin line, whitening then returning to pink, before he says, “Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks.”

 

—

 

Somehow, after buying a family sized bag of hot cheeto puffs from the gas station, they end up at a pumpkin patch. It’s not the kind with fat pumpkins sprouting from the soil over a backdrop of blue skies and lush greenery and a red barn. Rather, this pumpkin patch is more of an attraction place for little kids—an inflatable slide, an inflatable obstacle course, an orange and black bouncy house, a mini train driven by a scrawny twelve-year-old, and a few other rides that Mingyu’s ass can’t fit in. The “patch” is located on an empty lot, and the dry dirt of the lot is covered by wood chips and hay to at least put some effort into this whole shebang.

“So,” Wonwoo grunts, kicking over a small pumpkin that a kid rolls in front of him, “remind me: Why did you say you needed to be here?”

Mingyu’s adjusting his camera settings when he replies, “There’s an autumn photography contest coming up, and what better place to do it than here?” He lifts his DSLR and points it towards Wonwoo. “Smile!”

_Snap!_

He grins as he checks it, but it drops when the screen shows that Wonwoo definitely did not smile. “No pictures of me,” the driver deadpans.

“Why not? You’re picture worthy.”

“No pictures, Gyu.”

“Hearing you use that nickname makes me feel way younger than you. I don't think I like it.” Mingyu clicks his tongue, and it mixes with the shutter sound that tells him his camera is turning off automatically. “But _technically_ you’re my model for the night, so you kind of have no choice.”

“Mmmm, tragic,” Wonwoo responds, uninterested, looking away to quickly analyze the patch another time. “Okay, well, good luck getting some pictures of me doing anything descent. I think I’ve grown out of everything here.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Mingyu says. He lifts his arm up to gesture towards the inflatable slides. “That tall slide is like, what, twenty feet? And you’re like, uh, five-ten?”

“Six, actually, but okay.”

“See! It’s still bigger than you.” Then, as a light passes his eyes, he gets an idea and grins almost manically. “I just had a lightbulb moment.”

“Oh, no.”

“Let’s ride every ride here,” he says, grabbing Wonwoo’s wrist and pulling him towards the trailer home at the entrance, “I’ll pay!”

“Whoa, whoa, wait”—Wonwoo digs his heels in the wood chips and hay, forcing Mingyu back—“what do I get out of this?”

Mingyu does a gesture that implies _duh, isn’t it obvious?_ “Fun, of course. Now, c’mon”—He continues dragging Wonwoo to the trailer—“let’s go buy our tickets.”

They stand in a short line behind a mom and two toddlers, both wearing small dog tag necklaces around the collars of their jean jackets. Mingyu looks down at his own dog tag necklace and starts to fiddle with it, looping the chain between his fingers and running his nail over the carvings. Soon, it’s their turn in line and he let’s go of the tag, giving the woman in the witch hat his full attention. “Tickets for every ride for two, please,” he tells her. The total comes out to roughly around twenty dollars, and the high price is not at all surprising since events like these are always a little extra when it comes to money-making. As Mingyu is about to hand the witch-lady his money, Wonwoo karate chops his arm and looks at him with guilt filled eyes.

“Gyu, it’s _twenty._ ”

“Okay, and?”

His expression drops, lips and eyes turned to flat lines. “I get that you’re some rich kid with money in your wallet, but you’re already paying me every week for rides. I can pay for myself.”

“Ha!” Mingyu flicks Wonwoo’s hand away, smiling sarcastically. “Funny! Lighten up, sensei. You already put up with enough crap from me; this is just me paying you back for all that.”

“But—”

He shoves his hand over Wonwoo’s mouth to shut him up, then hands the witch-lady the money. She’s grinning as she counts up their tickets, murmuring, “You boys are hilarious.” She gives them the tickets and stamps their hands. “Have fun!”

“Thank you, you’re very kind!” Mingyu shouts as they walk away, and he flinches when Wonwoo huffs hot, wet breath into his hand. “Oh, ew.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Noted.” Mingyu runs his hand over his jacket to wipe off the saliva. “So, uh, what do you want to do first?” When Wonwoo shrugs, he starts pulling him towards the inflatable slide. “The big slide it is!”

And then the night goes on, and it looks like Wonwoo’s actually having fun. He hides his smiles and tries to keep his laughter down to a minimum, but the countless times Mingyu trips over pumpkins and slips while climbing up the slides and hits his head as he crawls through the obstacle course—Wonwoo can't hold back. Every time he laughs—the stomach-grabbing, gut-wrenching, nose scrunching type—Mingyu smiles and just thinks, _Yup, I did that_.

Mingyu get’s some really good shots, too. He goes around taking pictures of dogs staring at the donkeys in the petting zoo, babies being kissed by their moms, and kids riding the tornado swing. But, aside from those, his camera’s crowded with even more pictures of Wonwoo. Wonwoo smiling, Wonwoo watching the train pass him, Wonwoo sneezing, Wonwoo eating a corn dog, Wonwoo talking about how much he actually hates corn dogs, Wonwoo finishing the corn dog anyway, Wonwoo waving at a toddler—Wonwoo being Wonwoo. The amount of pictures Mingyu has taken of him is ridiculous, but he doesn't notice _how_ ridiculous until they’re sitting at a picnic table, parallel, next to some kids who touch them a little too much.

“Thank you,” Mingyu says to the man handing him a medium sized pumpkin. He glances at Wonwoo as he sets it down, and then asks, “Don’t you think it’s weird how Halloween was, like, three weeks ago and the patch is still here? Like, we’re carving pumpkins in November.”

Wonwoo opens the pack of carving tools they receive. “October went by fast. They probably want it to last a little longer.” He lifts the top off and looks inside. “Oh, they took the insides out for us.”

“Huh?” Mingyu checks his pumpkin. “Oh, yeah. That makes this a lot easier. But, anyway, what about Thanksgiving? Aren't there any Thanksgiving festivals?”

“Thanksgiving is a forgotten holiday.” Wonwoo trades the carving tool for a sharpie, popping the cap off and drawing on his pumpkin. “It’s just a way to force American families to come together to make themselves seem like they get along. But then they argue at the dinner table because Uncle Johnny broke Papa John’s tractor last Thanksgiving.”

Mingyu laughs, snorts, then covers his nose and mouth, wheezing. “Dude, what the heck. That’s hilarious.”

Wonwoo doesn't respond, too caught up in his pumpkin outline. Mingyu grabs his camera to take a picture, and the shutter makes the latter glare at him. He takes another picture.

“Dude.”

“I’m doin’ it to win, man.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Liar.”

Wonwoo sighs and continues his outline. Smirking, Mingyu views the pictures, and the kid next to him watches over his shoulder.

“He looks scary like that,” the kid murmurs, pointing her saliva coated fingers at the screen.

Mingyu crinkles his nose and looks at the kid. “I agree. However”—He goes back a few pictures to show a picture of Wonwoo smiling, all teeth and joy—“I think he looks less scary like this.”

The kid’s brown ponytails shake as she nods in agreement. “Me too! He looks like a prince!”

He whispers, “I think he looks like a prince, too. But shhh, don’t tell him I said that.” She does a zipping motion across her lips and presses them together. Mingyu winks. “Awesome. You should finish your pumpkin, or else I’ll finish before you.”

She unzips her lips. “Okay, giant man,” she whispers.

He laughs lightly, then looks back down at his camera. Going back to the picture of Wonwoo glaring, he thinks for a bit.

“Why did you always glare at me before?” he asks him.

Wonwoo finishes his outline and says, “What?” as he grabs a carving tool.

“Before you started giving me rides and stuff. I didn't think you liked me.”

His lips pucker to the right as he thinks about it, humming. “If I smiled, you’d talk to me or think we were friends.”

“And if you gave me rides, I’d talk to you. So explain that.”

It takes a moment for him to say, “I’m doing someone a favor.”

 _Favor?_ “Who?”

“Jun.”

“What do I have to do with this favor?”

Wonwoo sighs and starts carving the pumpkin. “You should start working on your pumpkin, Gyu,” he suggests.

They don't discuss the favor for the rest of the night.

More focused on his pictures of Wonwoo and the other people carving pumpkins, Mingyu pays little attention to how well he’s doing on his carving. Actually, he isn't doing well at all, and even the girl next to him says that. What was supposed to be Snoopy on his dog house, turns into an oversized hashbrown on a potato-looking stove. Mingyu thinks he can cry looking at it—and that’s definitely not meant in a good way.

“Finished,” Wonwoo announces, dropping the carving tool and cracking his neck.

Mingyu looks at him, and then down at his own pumpkin, and then slowly stops carving. “Yeah,” he drags, “me, too.”

“What’d you make?”

He clears his throat and answers, “Snoopy.”

“Can I see?”

“No.”

“Is it ugly?”

“Yes.”

“At least you tried.”

“Yup. Definitely did my best. Totally.”

“By the way”—Wonwoo turns his pumpkin around to show Mingyu. It’s a silhouette of a cat—“I overheard you and pigtails.” He folds his arms on the top of his pumpkin and props his chin over them. “I’m not a prince.”

Mingyu gives up on his pumpkin. It doesn't even look like it’s anything at this point. “Why do you say that?”

“Aren't princes supposed to be perfect?”

“I mean, I guess, yeah.”

Wonwoo presses his lips against his sweater sleeves. “I’m not a prince then,” comes out as a soft murmur.

After pushing his pumpkin aside, Mingyu replies, “Maybe the world could use a not-so-perfect prince for once,” and turns on his camera.

Wonwoo smiles. He captures it in time, and he decides it’s the best picture he’s taken all night before even looking at it.

 

—

 

Wonwoo and Mingyu arrive at the journalist’s house an hour before his curfew. Once the van comes to a complete stop, they sit in silence for a time.

“Hey,” Wonwoo whispers, like he’s telling a secret, although they’re the only ones in the car, “how’re Soonyoung and Seokmin?”

Mingyu feels a chill run down his back, immediately wondering why the hell his tutor would be asking about his friends. “Are you talking about… you know…”

“Yeah.”

He swallows. “They’re better,” he manages, “but after something like that, things can't be the same.”

Wonwoo busies himself by tapping on the steering wheel, pursing his lips as he thinks hard. “While the rumor was going around, Seokmin talked to me a couple times. He said that, because I rarely talked to anyone at school, he trusted me more than he trusted his own friends.” He let’s go of the wheel and rests his hands in his lap. “He told me everything.”

Mingyu makes sure to keep his voice soft and calm because the last thing he wants to do is make Wonwoo close himself off again. “What did he say?”

“He thought the rumor was all his fault. Jeonghan’s friends asked if he loved Soonyoung and, of course, Seokmin said yes.” He laughs airily, sarcastically, like the entire thing was stupid. “Those assholes _knew_ what he meant, but they still went around calling him and Soonyoung gay.  Then they started making shit up, like they hooked up or something, which is complete bullshit. No one really treated them differently, other than the few people who teased them about it, but, you know, they weren't mean. People started to wonder if Soonyoung a cheater, though. It really tore Soonyoung and Janice apart—but I’m sure you already know that part.” He takes a deep breath and raises his voice a volume higher. “And the thing is, even though Jeonghan’s not that bad of a person, he let it happen! Like, why! Jeonghan basically controls those guys, but he never tells them to stop! Ugh, they fuckin’ piss me off so much. No one likes them.”

_Wow._

Despite their conversation being serious and pretty damn important, Mingyu can’t help the smile on his face. “Do you talk this much when you’re all fired up?” he asks. He bites it back and tilts his head to the side when Wonwoo gives him that _really, dude?_ look. “You don't usually say more than three sentences, and even that’s rare.”

“To answer your question”—Wonwoo unlocks the doors—“yes, I talk a lot when I’m ‘fired up’. Now get out of my car.”

It’s a joke, and Mingyu’s smile grows because it’s hilarious. He doesn't leave, doesn't even touch the door handle, because he can’t stop looking at Wonwoo. That pissed off, you're-annoying-and-I-kind-of-hate-you face he has is so entertaining, Mingyu wants to stay with it a few seconds longer.

“You’re something else, aren't you?”

One, two, three seconds gap between that line and the next. “Are you flirting with me?”

He opens the door and exhales as he steps out. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, sensei.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *INSERTS VERY LOUD SCREAMING*
> 
> i did this with And Counting (posted on aff) so i just wanted to know: would it be okay if i recommended songs at the end of every chapter in the end notes? like, would anyone actually listen to them or..?
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> 


	5. Working For The Driver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mingyu and Wonwoo run errands together.

“Reporting for Kent News, I’m Seokmin Lee with photographer Soonyoung Kwon.”

Awkward pause.

“Aaannddd _cut!”_ Soonyoung announces from behind the tripod. Seokmin sighs in relief, numbs his posture, then loosens the tie he’s wearing. “Great! Well, actually, not that great. You were acting a bit strange. Why were you so off?”

But Soonyoung already knows why Seokmin was acting “so off” as he reported their news story, and everyone else with them—Mingyu, Jihoon, and Janice—knows, too, so they’re _all_ assholes right now for simply being there. Actually, mostly Janice. And probably Soonyoung, too, because they’re dating and he can easily be accused as part of the plan, because they fucking brought Yuna along, despite her not being in video production nor journalism. Seokmin can’t talk in front of a camera when his cinnamon apple, his Juliet, the light of his life, is watching him, smiling and laughing lightly whenever he chokes on his own words. Damn, it’s hard being around beautiful people.

“Yeah, are you feelin’ okay, Seokmin?” Yuna asks, and she sounds genuinely concerned, which is probably the worst part. “You’re, um, sweating. A lot.”

Seokmin fake laughs, squeaky _haha’s_ accompanied by a smile all too wide to be considered as normal. “Soonyoung got me sick.” He coughs, but is still smiling, so it looks outright stupid as he does it. “Darn flu.”

Jihoon and Janice’s faces scrunch up as they try to hide their reactions, and Mingyu stands at the side, rubbing his temples because _why is Seokmin so awkward around Yuna?_

“He’s helpless,” Mingyu groans.

Janice takes a bite out of the half-eaten granola bar Soonyoung gave her. “A pussy,” she responds.

“No wonder he’s single,” Jihoon says after.

The students call it a morning and make their way to Soonyoung’s mini cooper to pack up the equipment. Seokmin and Soonyoung handle the bigger, more maintenance-required things, like the camera and microphone stick, as Mingyu and Jihoon gather the other items, handing them to Janice and Yuna to put them in their cases.

It sounds like a lot, but it really isn't. There are the headphones that the sound guy (or girl—Janice—in this case) uses to hear the output of the recording, two mics—handheld and stick—a camera, and a tripod. They’re so easy to put away, even Yuna knows where they belong without anyone telling her, and that says a lot for someone who has zero experience in videography.

“Wonwoo’s coming,” Jihoon mentions, handing Janice the handheld microphone.

Mingyu watches Seokmin explain the script to Yuna, lifting up his camera to take a picture of them as he asks, “Why? He doesn't even have an elective this year.”

“I can’t take you home, so I asked if he could take you instead.”

Releasing his camera and letting the leather strap hang on his neck, Mingyu starts shoving Jihoon. “Dude, you said you could take me home! We were going to get ice cream!”

Jihoon flails his arms to slap Mingyu’s hands away. “Hey! I have things to do, okay? Be thankful that Wonwoo’s nice enough to even come all the way here.”

“Yeah, _downtown_ ,” Mingyu emphasizes. He switches his camera off, sulking, “and most Kent students live up in our area. That’s far.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ Wonwoo could get mad at me and be like, ‘Wow, Gyu, your _headass_ friend brought me all the way here just to pick you up, and—’”

“Gyu?” Jihoon smirks and crosses his arms, and Mingyu is overcome with regret, immediately closing his mouth. _Dammit._ “Is that what he calls you?”

Mingyu can do one of three things: Say yes, lie or beat around the bush. If he says yes, Jihoon will, without a doubt, tease him ruthlessly and say something like, “Cute nicknames already?” or, “Maybe I should start calling you Gyu, too.” If he lies, however, Jihoon will know he’s lying, so it all leads back to the former option. Then, if he just beats around the bush, Jihoon will remain suspicious but most likely won't mention anything. Mingyu decides quickly.

“Well, I mean, ‘gyu’ _is_ part of my name. Min _gyu._ Like when I call you Ji. _Ji_ hoon.”

Okay, that fucking sucked.

But it’s the right amount of stupid to make Jihoon dismiss the topic, leaving it at, “You’re… fuckin’ weird, man,” before moving out of the way so Soonyoung can close the trunk. Then, right on time, Wonwoo’s van pulls up. He reaches over to bring down the passenger side window, waving kindly and saying hello to everyone.

“Yo, Wonwoo!” Soonyoung shouts, walking over to give the driver one of those friendly bro-fives that Mingyu always feels awkward doing. “What brings you here?” The others can't hear him outside the car, but Wonwoo says something and it makes Soonyoung look back at Jihoon. “I thought you were giving Mingyu a ride home?”

Jihoon’s twirling his car keys around his finger when he answers, “Couldn't take him, so I called Wonwoo.” His keys fly off his finger and hit the Volkswagen van. “Oh, shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Wonwoo says. He looks at Mingyu and unlocks the door. “We’ve got to go now because I have errands to run.”

Mingyu sighs. He wants ice cream with Jihoon; not another awkward van ride with Wonwoo. He doesn’t really have a choice, though, unless he wants to ride the freaking bus with a bunch of strangers, so— “Okay, coming.”

Soonyoung moves aside, slapping Mingyu’s butt as he steps in the vehicle. Mingyu barely has enough time to comment on the gesture as Wonwoo drives away, making a left and moving out of sight. Music plays at a hum on the radio, and it’s at a level that busies the air but keeps the lyrics and beat unrecognizable.

He hates this. Mingyu hates that he isn't allowed to drive until he fucking _graduates,_ and he also hates that the person who has to drive him places—out of all the other people at school—is an attractive, introverted smartass that is almost impossible to talk to. And yes, Mingyu admits that Wonwoo’s attractive, because _look at him._ He’s got a face sculpted by the gods themselves, hair that looks really shiny and really soft and probably smells like apples, and his eyeliner is a bonus. Sometimes Mingyu looks at his makeup and wants to ask, “Hey, can you teach me how to do that?” because (lowkey) he wants to feel pretty, or better-looking, to put it in different terms. Nonetheless, looks aside, he really doesn't want to be in this van, sitting awkwardly and just waiting to get dropped off at home.

Here’s the unfortunate part: He’s not getting dropped off at home—at least not yet. Sometime during the ride, Wonwoo asks if Mingyu minds running errands with him, since he apparently lives in this area. Not uptown, where they attend school. Downtown, where there’s more crime and the houses are a bit rundown and the streets are older. Although terrified of this part of town, because he’s afraid of getting jumped or pissing off the community thugs, Mingyu still says he doesn't mind not getting dropped off yet.

They park in a small parking space between two other cars. They’re in front of a little one story building—pink, gated windows, a white sign with red text that says “Marie’s Dry Cleaners.”

When Mingyu reaches for the door handle, Wonwoo says, “Wait here. I won’t take too long,” then leaves.

Mingyu thinks of busying himself with his phone, maybe scroll through his Twitter feed and refresh until his TL is basically dead. But then he remembers where he is, and that the windows aren't tinted, and there’s a dude on the street glancing in his direction every few seconds, so he decides to keep his phone in his pocket and wait patiently. Eventually, he gets bored, so he starts rummaging through Wonwoo’s stuff for a strip of gum or _something_ to keep him occupied.

Staying true to his word, Wonwoo returns shortly, catching Mingyu in the midst of opening the compartment in front of the passenger seat. Instead of calling him out for it, Wonwoo leaves the clothes in the back and rolls his eyes at Mingyu.

“There’s nothing there,” Wonwoo tells him.

Mingyu sinks into his seat and buckles his seatbelt again. “I was looking for gum,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

“Here”—Wonwoo digs through his wallet for a strip of gum, tossing it to Mingyu when he finds it—“I don’t like gum anyway.”

“You don’t?” Mingyu asks as he takes the gum. He unwraps it and folds the strip by sections before he starts chewing. “Everyone likes gum.”

Wonwoo starts up the car again and pulls out of the lot. “Well, I’m not like everyone, am I?”

The journalist says, “No, you are definitely not.”

 

—

 

Mingyu worked at Target over summer last year, but got fired a month in because he used up all three of his strikes: 1. for eating a cheese pretzel during his shift at the snack bar and _not_ a paying for it, 2. for swatching the colors of a L’Oreal eyeshadow palette, then ultimately breaking the shelf of foundation neighboring it (thanks, butter fingers), and 3. for making out with a customer in one of the dressing rooms. Look, he’s not a crook, or, in general, a bad guy, he fucking swears, but his curiosity and desperation lead him to doing things he shouldn't do. He cleaned up the foundation puddle, and he eventually paid for that pretzel, too, so he isn’t that bad of a person. Making out with a customer, however… he can’t defend himself for that. There really is no excuse for what he did, unless he tells people, “She needed help getting her bra off because she couldn't reach the back,” which, technically, _is_ true. He can’t explain the rest, though.

So walking into Target (not the same one he worked at before, God fucking bless) with Wonwoo and a list of things to buy, Mingyu feels the embarrassing moments reel back. His face heats upon stepping in, adrenaline moving so fast that he hears it drumming against his ears. He’s holding his breath, doing his best in not showing any visible signs of regret and anxiety.

To his misfortune, Wonwoo notices, and it gives Mingyu another reason to _want to_ hate him (although he knows he can't, because Wonwoo hasn't done anything wrong).

“You look uncomfortable, Gyu,” he mentions, sounding like he isn't all that interested in the latter’s response anyway.

Mingyu lightly pats his cheek and blinks a few times, replying, “No, I just have, like, bad experiences at Target.”

“Bad as in..?”

 _Don't make me tell you._ “Embarrassing.” He waits for Wonwoo to grab a cart before continuing, “I’m not gonna go ass deep with it.”

Wonwoo half scoffs, half laughs, trudging the cart to the women’s clothing section. “Wasn't really interested anyway,” he murmurs to himself, but Mingyu hears, and a hook pulls the ending points—or beginning, however you view it—of his lips.

He can’t help it. That ticklish, stomach-flipping, instinctive tug has been showing up a lot lately, and it wasn't until a couple days ago when he noticed that it’s been happening around Wonwoo the most. One turn of his head and a glimpse of Wonwoo doing something as small as sharpening his pencil, Mingyu’s already doing it: Smiling. For no reason. But it’s a good feeling, so he doesn't really question it.

Wonwoo sees something in the women’s clothing section, leaves the cart with Mingyu, then approaches a rack of coats, searching for a size. For a moment, Mingyu starts to wonder if Wonwoo sometimes _wears_ women’s clothing, because why else would he be in this part of Target? The old him would've thought it was weird, shopping for clothes not made for men, but ever since he saw Wonwoo wearing eyeliner his judgement has changed. People can wear what they want.

But Wonwoo, in fact, does not wear women’s clothing.

“It’s for my mom,” he tells Mingyu when he comes back, tossing a navy blue coat in the cart. “Her jacket is, like, five years old. She needs a new one.”

Mingyu lets go of the cart handle, allowing Wonwoo to take the lead. He hums and goes, “That’s nice of you,” as they start walking. “Yeah, it’s been really cold lately.”

Wonwoo huffs, pink lips trembling. If they were outside, they’d see whatever he’s feeling through smoke and brisk air. Unfortunately, but also fortunately, they're in the heated indoors. “It’s as cold as the last stage of the fucking inferno,” Wonwoo humors, and Mingyu laughs.

“You had Mr. Ashton sophomore year?” he asks, shoulders rising and falling.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo answers. He doesn't laugh, but he does smile. “I passed the ‘Inferno’ test with an A because I remembered that lucifer’s nipples were frozen in ice.”

Mingyu laughs harder, close to snorting but not quite. “That entire story was a fan fiction dedicated to Virgil”—At this, Wonwoo finally goes _PFT!_ and laughs just as hard as the journalist—“and a weird one, too. Like, he fainted so many times.”

“I know. The entire time I was thinking, ‘C’mon, Dante, mama ain't raise no pussy,’ but he still fainted.”

Yeah. Wonwoo can be funny. Mingyu likes funny.

Maybe this is it, Mingyu thinks. This is how he can get Wonwoo step out of his protective barrier for a while. They can talk like they're friends without spending lengthy seconds on wondering if they’ll say the right things or not. Everything gets thrown in the assembly line and still comes out as they should—no mistakes. That’s a good thing.

They keep up the conversation as they rotate around the store, topics somehow drifting from “Dante’s Inferno” to Mingyu’s new cat. For the most of it, Wonwoo’s voice is only used for sarcastic comments and little noises that urge Mingyu to keep talking when he thinks the latter isn't listening. It’s the only normal, not awkward thing they’ve done in the weeks they’ve been around each other.

After adding lotion, bar soaps and face cleanser to the cart, Wonwoo starts looking for shampoo. The conversation is a bit dead by then, and Mingyu’s occupying his mind with things he could say to talk again. He silently follows Wonwoo instead, unable to think of anything good enough and long lasting.

Wonwoo squints as he searches for the right shampoo, reading the labels at a short distance. When he runs a rand through his hair, letting it fall from his scalp, to his neck, all the way back down at his sides, Mingyu starts to wonder: _What does his hair smell like?_ He taps his thumb against the cart a couple times before taking quiet steps closer to Wonwoo. Behind his tutor, Mingyu stands until a few centimeters bridge between his toes and Wonwoo’s heels. He sniffs.

“What are you doing?”

Mingyu jumps back, startled. He stutters, “I, uh, what?”

“Why were you standing so close?” Wonwoo rephrases, eyebrows drawn together.

“What do you…” Mingyu chuckles anxiously, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. “Whaddya mean? I wasn’t sniffing your— I mean, standing so close.”

“Yeah you were. Like this”—Wonwoo takes a large step forward, closer than when Mingyu stood behind him, and Mingyu’s breath hitches—“you were this close to me. Why?”

 _This is torture._ “Haha!” Mingyu fake smiles, large and ugly and uncomfortable and unfitting. “Ha, didn't even notice.”

And the second time he embarrasses himself, not long after sniffing Wonwoo’s hair (by the way, it’s definitely Head & Shoulders), they’re in the snacks aisle. They both hold opposite ends of the cart handle and stroll down. Wonwoo’s eyes scan the shelves, while Mingyu’s peer down at the other’s hands.

Wonwoo’s hands are near porcelain. They look cold.

So, without really thinking of what he’s going to do, Mingyu’s pinky stretches to wrap around Wonwoo’s, maybe to keep it warm or just feel it. However, it’s a given that the world fucking hates him at the moment, so—

“Oh, hey, they have chocolate pretzels.”

Mingyu jolts away and swings his arm back, hitting the shelf behind him. Wonwoo hisses as the journalist sucks in a breath and lets out a hushed screech of pain, using his latter hand to cradle himself. He whispers, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and paces back and forth, waiting for the hurt to die down.

“You’re buying your own bandaid,” Wonwoo says.

“No, I’m not blee—” Mingyu’s gaze moves down. He wants to scream as he looks at his hand and sees a small cut on the back of it. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But I didn't bring my wallet,” he whines, “so can't I just pay you back?”

“I only have enough money for my small, small, very small family,” Wonwoo exaggerates, showing no pity, “and I can’t just take something out of the cart to buy bandaids.” He grabs a bag of chocolate covered pretzels, then thrusts the cart to move wherever else. “You’re rich. You can find a way, right?”

“Being rich means nothing when you don’t have the money with you!”

“Dude,” Wonwoo snickers, “I’m fuckin’ with you. I have a bandaid in my wallet.”

Relieved, Mingyu sighs. After he says, “You’re an asshole,” and accepts the bandaid Wonwoo hands him, they walk to self-checkout and scan the items in the cart. As he waits for Wonwoo to finish, he looks around to occupy himself with something to do. By the restrooms, he sees the back of someone with auburn hair and a navy blue sweater vest, and the person turns around just before Mingyu can look away.

“Hey, Mingyu!” the person, Seungkwan, shouts, waving his hand and hopping in place. “Mingyu! Hey!”

Mingyu holds a finger over his lips to make Seungkwan shut up. He tells Wonwoo he’ll be in the restroom, then walks away to talk to Seungkwan. Seungkwan’s grin widens the closer Mingyu gets.

“You’re so embarrassing,” Mingyu bites in a threatening whisper. “Wonwoo’s here!”

Seungkwan shrinks into himself, his grin turned sheepish. “Sorry.” He stands on the ends of his toes to look over Mingyu’s shoulder. “Is that Wonwoo?”

Mingyu looks back. “Oh, uh, yeah. That’s him.”

“Who is he? I’ve never heard you talk about him.” Seungkwan stares a while longer. “He’s cute.”

Mingyu’s cheeks turn red and he, for some reason, can’t get himself to look back again. “Wonwoo’s the dude who drives me home and tutors me.”

Seungkwan wiggles his eyebrows. “Tutors you, eh?”

“Not like that, okay, Wonwoo—”

“Wait!” He gasps and takes a big step to the side to get a better look, using Mingyu’s body to hide himself. “He’s the guy on your camera!”

“What? Wait, how did you know he’s on my camera?”

Smug, he flips the nonexistent hair on his shoulders. “I have my ways.”

“Oh, fuck, my best friend is a stalker.” Mingyu drags a long, heavy sigh. “Don’t go through my camera roll!”

“Hey, as your best friend, I have the right to go through all your shit.”

He scowls. “You're a walking headache, you know that?”

Seungkwan waves a hand, ignoring his comment. Instead, he reminds Mingyu, “The autumn photo and art contest. Isn’t that what those pictures were for?”

“I’m using the picture I took of a poodle.”

“That picture sucks compared to the ones you have of Wonwoo. Use his instead!”

“Wha— No!”

“Why not?”

“It’s weird. He doesn't like the attention, so I’m, like, absolutely sure he’ll say no and then kick my balls.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “You’re exaggerating. Look, those pictures were great. Best you've taken in months. You _have_ to ask him. It can help you win.”

“I know,” Mingyu groans, “but it’s just so weird asking him—”

“Oh, shoot, he’s walking over here.” Seungkwan tiptoes backwards. He winks as he opens the bathroom door. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

And he’s gone.

“Hey, Gyu, are you ready to go?”

Mingyu turns around and sees Wonwoo waiting for him, holding three plastic bags in his hands. He stutters as he tries to get his mind back on track, unable to say anything beyond _uh_ and _um._ To save him the trouble, Wonwoo gives Mingyu the bags, all of them, and urges him to walk by pushing from behind.

—

An apartment. A bedroom, a futon, a little TV no bigger than the iMacs at school, plants and flowerbeds on the fire escape, a kitchen much smaller than Mingyu’s, and a Christmas tree that reaches only up to Mingyu’s waist. This is where Wonwoo lives. This is where he sleeps every night, gets up every morning, eats, studies, charges himself up after being drained from school—and Mingyu’s standing in the middle of it, carrying grocery bags that he doesn't know where to put.

“Nice place,” Mingyu compliments, his gaze following the string lights that hang around the living room.

“Thanks, my mom likes decorating for the holidays.” He throws his mom's uniform over the futon pillows. “You can leave the other stuff by the kitchen.”

They waste no time as they start preparing for the hours of chores they’ll be doing. Mingyu’s in charge of mopping the floors, as commanded by the chief himself, and Wonwoo (said chief) sorts things where they’re supposed to be and cleans the bed. Without asking, Mingyu plays slow jazzy music and some acoustics, and Wonwoo doesn't mind listening to the playlist. It keeps them busy and tames any awkwardness lining between them.

It’s kind of funny, actually, doing chores together. There are moments when Mingyu bumps into Wonwoo as he walks backwards and mops, and the latter shoves him a little to move him away. It happens so often than Mingyu finds himself doing it on purpose more often than on accident, and Wonwoo has probably noticed, also. Then they wipe the windows together—Wonwoo on the fire escape and Mingyu inside—and the journalist teases Wonwoo by following his movements from the other side of the glass. His stomach flips when Wonwoo smiles.

They finish eventually, sometime around four in the afternoon, and decide to treat themselves to a long, much deserved break. Cracking open the can of ginger ale Wonwoo hands him, Mingyu asks, “Why do you live all the way down here, but go to Kent?”

Wonwoo takes a sip from his own can. “Ms. Kang got me into Kent. My mom didn't want me to attend my zoned high school because of all the fights that go on.”

“You don't miss any of your old friends?”

“Barely had any,” Wonwoo corrects, “because secluding yourself from everyone makes it less likely to have people hate you. The last thing you want here is a person who hates you.”

Mingyu burps. “‘scuse me. Can’t relate, but then again, we’re from opposite sides of the city and our situations are different.”

“Very.”

He looks around. Everything looks relatively clean, probably far cleaner than every other apartment in this building, and there’s a lot of furniture from places like Macy’s and IKEA and Pier 1 Imports. Wonwoo’s not poor, Mingyu concludes. It seems like Wonwoo’s family has enough money to rent an apartment uptown—so why is he living here?

“You don’t have enough money to move out?” Mingyu asks, looking up at the paint that chips from the ceiling.

Wonwoo leaves his can on the rug. “I have money to move closer to Kent, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then why stay here?”

“Because I grew up here”—he brings a leg up to fold it over the futon and tuck his ankle underneath his right thigh, bumping knees with Mingyu—“and so did my mom. We don't have much, but we still have our past sitting in the cracks of these roads and over the brick buildings. We can't let those go.”

“Deep. You know, that’d make a _great_ interview for Kent News’ website—”

“I’m not letting you interview me.”

Mingyu huffs and pouts. “Damn.” He thinks for a moment, remembering the distance between this apartment and Kent Academy. “How do you manage to drive so far every morning?”

“Jun.”

“Jun?”

“Yeah.”

Mingyu blinks. “Well… aren't you going to explain what Jun has to do with any of this?”

“He's like my second family,” Wonwoo puts it simply, wiggling his toes. “His parents let me stay with them on the weekdays.”

 _That makes sense._ “How long has that been going on?”

“Ever since I got my driver’s license.”

“Who’d you stay with before?”

“Ms. Kang.”

 _Also makes sense._ “Oh. Well, even though the neighborhood isn't what I’m used to, there’s probably some good in it. Like”—He points at the door—“that lady next door who said hello to us. She’s cool.”

“There’s more than that,” Wonwoo says. He looks offended, but not so much that it’s really noticeable. “So much more. It looks like shit up close, but there’s beauty in it. You just have to find it.”

“Can you give me an example?”

Wonwoo nods, then looks over Mingyu’s shoulder to peer out the window. He takes Mingyu’s soda can and places it on the rug, telling the journalist to follow him. With Mingyu behind him, curious, Wonwoo lifts open the fire escape window and crawls out, making his way up the steps as the other’s large frame struggles to squeeze through the opening. By the time they’re at the rooftop, Wonwoo sits at the edge of the building, legs dangling off the sides.

“Won— Hey!” Mingyu grabs his tutor’s arm. “You’re gonna fall off!”

Wonwoo gently grabs Mingyu’s wrist to detach it from his arm, laughing in light breaths. “Relax, I sit like this all the time. Look.”

He points ahead. _Wow._ In a ghetto, trashy, torn up, swallowed whole and spat out place like this, you’d wonder what anyone would like about it. But this, sun setting and light clouds roaming mid-sky and silhouettes of the industrial part of the city, Mingyu knows why Wonwoo and his mom would want to live here. Ignore the odd smell, ignore the fizzy feeling in your mouth from all that ginger ale, ignore the sound of eight year-olds cursing at each other on the street.

Just look at the view—you’ll appreciate more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH sorry i was gone for so long! a lot was happening and i had to catch up on things. like, i sprained my foot bc i fell down the stairs while carrying my cat, and some family stuff happened the week before, and then i was busy the first half of thanksgiving break, and i'm applying for a college high school, which means it's time to write essays. stress! love it!
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: Pentagon's cover of [See You Again](https://youtu.be/FjXORw2EGsA) (this counts right?)


	6. Canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Mingyu has seen Wonwoo's life in his perspective, he thinks it's time to show his tutor what beauty is in his eyes.

Between first and sixth grade, Minah took gymnastics. There’s this one trick (dance, move,  thing, whatever the hell it’s called, Mingyu doesn't know) that she did at state championships, and he doesn’t remember seeing it in person. But he lives in the twenty-first century, a time of technological advancement—in other words: video recordings. So about half a year after losing his memory, Mingyu watched videos of his sister, and the one he sometimes thinks of, that one trick mentioned earlier, is of Minah doing a somersault.

That gymnast he saw in the recordings—she currently resides in his gut, where all he can feel is the somersaults repeating as he stares at his tutor, doing his best to listen but hearing nothing.

“So you take this number and multiply it by—” _Blah, blah, blah._ How are Wonwoo’s lips so pretty when he speaks? With his mouth hung slightly open, Mingyu’s lips feel dry and he licks them, biting the lower skin and moving his gaze back to his homework.

Good grades matter, he tells himself, so no more distractions.

“So you got it?” Wonwoo asks.

Mingyu sucks in some air through his nose as he straightens his back. Seeing the innocent, wide-eyed gaze Wonwoo has makes Mingyu stutter and nod. “Uh, y-yeah, I got it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Wonwoo leans closer, one arm on the table. “Explain the second step.”

 _Stumped._ “...Can you go over it one last time for me, please?”

Wonwoo grabs another sheet of lined paper and picks up his pencil. Before starting the question, he tells Mingyu, “Don’t stare at me this time,” and continues by copying the original problem down.

Taken aback and embarrassed, Mingyu keeps staring. Wonwoo jabs his finger in the taller one’s cheek and turns his head away for him.

“Focus, Kim.”

“Sorry, sensei.”

After they go over how to do the problems, Wonwoo moves to the seat across from him and starts his own homework. Five minutes in, Mingyu realizes that the problems he’s doing are imperfect.

Wonwoo is not perfect, either, Mingyu concludes. He sings obnoxiously loud at music club meetings, says the un-funniest jokes, strums the wrong strings on his ukulele, and talks to the plants on his fire escape. He has acne and scarring spread across his chin and jawline, and he sometimes picks at them without really realizing what he’s doing. It’s gotten to the point where Mingyu has to flick his hand away to remind him that he shouldn't be popping and scratching his pimples, but it does minimal help in the end. There’s also the way Wonwoo’s car looks as if it’s been picked up from a dump, rolled down a hill of stone and rock, and spat on, inside and out. He’s got chip bags under the back seats, bread crumbs and other small traces of litter on the floors, dents on the exterior, and empty water bottles are thrown aside. He isn't exactly the cleanest person.

Imperfections like these, however, are overlooked. In the mornings, he’d usually give Mingyu leftovers from Jun’s house (“You look like you eat a lot,” he tells him, “and I mean, like, ten-plates-at-a-Vegas-buffet type of a lot.”). Talk about something he loves, and he’ll go on, then suddenly stop in the middle when he realizes that he’s actually opening up for once. He smells like fresh laundry, probably skips the cologne, and maintains soft-looking hair, despite the dyed sections of dark brown Mingyu sometimes spots. And then those days when he’d be too lazy to put on his contacts and wear his glasses instead— _Christ._

Sometimes the good things and bad things huddle into some frustrating shit.

Like, right here, as they study and do homework together, Wonwoo would make the bold move of grinning crookedly or winking whenever Mingyu looks at him. It’s torturous—so much that Mingyu ducks so fast, his head slams against his pre-calc textbook. Worst part: Wonwoo pretends to not notice, then hides the lower half of his face behind his notebook to cover up any signs of amusement.

_What did I do to deserve this?_

“Do you need ice for that?” Wonwoo jokes, bottom lip caught between his teeth to bite his growing smile away.

Mingyu kicks him from under the table. “Shut up.”

But it all jumps back to the usual: Wonwoo and Mingyu stop talking, sit in silence, and almost ignore each other completely.

By the time Mingyu finishes his work, he hands his paper over and waits for his tutor to say, “You forgot to do _this,”_ or “It’s all just wrong.” Instead, he hears, “Good job. All of these are correct.”

Mingyu’s eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

Wonwoo nods, slides the paper back, and continues taking notes for AP psychology. “Yeah, you actually get it this time, Gyu.”

Mingyu whoops, dabs, then clears his throat and settles down when Wonwoo glares at him weirdly. He packs away his things, sliding his papers between color coded dividers and ordering his notebooks by class period. As he puts everything in his backpack, he’s hit with the remembrance of what Seungkwan told him the other day.

 _Ask him, ask him, ask him,_ he hears Seungkwan’s voice chant in his head.

“So”—Mingyu’s heart is running so fast, he can feel it crashing against his chest—“turns out I took more pictures of you than the pumpkins. You know, the day we went to the pumpkin patch together.”

“That’s totally not weird.”

“Yeah, so, um, do you mind if I, I dunno, use one of them for my exhibit on Thursday?”

Wonwoo stops writing and looks up unsurely. “I don’t know, Mingyu. Just because you have more pictures of me, it doesn't really mean any of them are, like, _good_.”

“They’re beautiful pictures, I promise.” That comes out a lot differently than he had in mind. As Wonwoo’s expression softens, Mingyu’s posture does the same. “Please consider it. Please. I really want you to be in this exhibit.”

Wonwoo’s eyes divert from Mingyu’s as he thinks, biting his bottom lip again and twirling his pencil—two things that drive Mingyu crazy. “Okay,” he agrees, and the latter (literally) squeals. “Which picture?”

Mingyu baits, “Come to the exhibit if you want to see.”

And so, as a few more days pass and the time comes, Mingyu finds himself standing in front of a full-body mirror, stressing over which tie he thinks he looks best in. Minah’s laying on his bed with Sari, their 2-year-old cat, on her chest, watching makeup tutorials on her phone. The purpose of her presence, at the moment, is to decide whether or not Mingyu looks “trashy” or “decent” (because she refuses to reach the lengths of “handsome” and “good”).

Removing the borrowed rubber duckie tie he took from his dad’s closet, Mingyu lets out an irritated _Arrggghh!_ and says, “Why is it so hard to choose a tie? A _tie,_ Min!”

“I told you to stick to the shiny black one,” she exhales. “Sari liked that one, too.”

Mingyu points at the cat exaggeratedly, shouting, “IT’S A _CAT_ , MIN! IT CAN’T VOICE ITS OPINION!”

Minah gasps as she pauses the video, puts her phone down, then covers Sari’s ears. “So rude! She knows what you’re saying!”

“OH MY—” Mingyu runs his hands down, from his hair to his cheeks, stretching his skin. Sighing deeply, he closes his eyes briefly before grabbing another tie. “You know what? The cat can ‘say’ what it wants.” He turns and looks in the mirror, fixing his hair. “I wonder if Wonwoo would like my hair like this, though,” he mumbles.

“Is Wonwoo the guy on your laptop?”

The journalist freezes. “What?”

“The cute guy on your laptop.” Minah grunts as she lifts Sari from her chest and sits up, letting her go when she starts to squirm. “Confession time: My laptop’s crap, so I used yours for my psychology project. I started to procrastinate and went through your pictures, and over half of your pumpkin patch ones were of that dude wearing eyeliner.”

Mingyu wants to choke himself right now—preferably with all the ties he has piled on his pillows. “Yes, that’s, uh— that’s Wonwoo. The guy driving me home every day.”

“I read the notes you wrote for the photos, too.” She combs through her hair and twirls the ends. “So… are you, perhaps, gay?”

“Where’d you get that from?”

“Sorry!” she yelps, catching her mistake, “I’m trying not to make assumptions”—She holds her hands up in defense—“but, like, the captions you wrote for these pictures. They don't sound like anything you’d write for Jihoon and them. These were more… heartfelt, I guess.”

Mingyu starts playing with his tie rather than putting it around his neck, looking down. “Lowkey hoping I don’t have feelings for him.” He shrugs, then laughs. “Wonwoo’s cool and all, but I feel like I’m not _supposed_ to like him.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Mingyu says, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess it’s because we come from two different places of the school’s social hierarchy. I’m pretty high up compared to him, to be honest.”

“Ah, the cliché ‘extrovert meets introvert’ concept.” Their eyes meet, and Mingyu huffs. Minah looks thoughtful as she twirls another section of hair. “Well, if you do like this guy, then he must be great.”

“He’s kind of an asshole.”

“But you like making him smile.” She winks and clicks her tongue, and Mingyu can feel his face heating up. “I read the caption on the last picture.”

“Okay”—He grabs her arm, escorts her out of his room, then closes it—“time for you to leave.”

On the other side of the door, she shouts, “You can't ignore the truth, big brother!”

“Shut up, Min!” He starts walking away from the door, but stops when he feels Sari rubbing her body against his legs. He lifts her up, opens the door, shoves the cat to his sister and says, “Here, take your little beast while you’re at it.”

 

—

 

It’s been thirty minutes. No sign of Wonwoo.

Mingyu thinks he should've expected it, though. Would Wonwoo really want to show up, especially for _him?_ The answer is obvious: No, he wouldn't. They aren't close, and even the word ‘friends’ is a bit of a reach. Everything between them is mutual. Mingyu’s just helping Wonwoo earn some money, and Wonwoo is just driving Mingyu home and helping him pass his classes. Friends? No. Not really. They’re a step under that label.

Jihoon is here, however, and he’s probably the greatest support system Mingyu has right now. He arrived with a foam finger and navy blue MU baseball cap, kept warm by the oversized bomber jacket Soonyoung gave him for Friendsgiving. He looks like a child trying on his big brother's clothes. It definitely attracts attention, that’s for sure.

“Tell me why the fuck Wonwoo Jeon is your model for this photo contest,” Jihoon says, pointing at the picture with his foam finger.

Mingyu’s lips flatten into a straight line. “Seungkwan told me to do this,” he answers. “I was going to use a poodle as—”

“No, but, like”—Jihoon shrugs and pouts at the picture—“it’s a nice picture. The judges will love it.”

Mingyu smiles. “Thanks, Ji.”

Then, Jihoon’s phone goes _PING!_ and he crouches a bit, hiding, hoping that no one in the exhibit heard it. He looks ahead and sees a security guard (round belly, small head, eyebrows white enough to blend in with his skin) pointing at the “PLEASE SILENCE YOUR PHONES” sign. Jihoon looks apologetic as he silences it and checks the text sent to him.

“Oh,” he says, “Wonwoo’s here.”

Mingyu jumps, startled by the news. “He actually came?”

“Yeah, he’s close to the front.” Jihoon uses his foam finger to motion his best friend to follow him. “Let’s go find him.” They walk, reach the lobby, and look over heads and shoulders for any sign of Wonwoo. Then, “Oh, over there!”

Mingyu turns. With a hard _padum,_ his heart knocks his soul out of his body. Wonwoo’s wearing ripped black skinny jeans and a white shirt that hugs his shoulders but loosens closer to his waist. He has a coat hung over his forearm, light brown. Their gazes meet right when Wonwoo removes his beanie, and Mingyu swears he’s a breath away from choking himself _._

“Hey,” Wonwoo huffs, “sorry, I was eating and lost track of time, and then there wasn't any parking around here, so I had to park all the way in the back. It’s so cold outside.”

“Do you want something warm to drink?” Jihoon offers. “They’re serving hot chocolate upstairs.”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “Nah, it’s cool, thanks.” He looks at Mingyu. “You know, it’s rude to not say hi when the person you invited arrives.”

Mingyu gulps. “Hi.”

“Is he OK?” Wonwoo jokes.

Jihoon angles himself to look up at Mingyu and observe him. He shrugs. “Probably has his dick up his throat or something.” Mingyu punches his shoulder. “ _Ow,_ you ass."

“You’re the ass.”

“You can do better than that, Mingyu.” Jihoon checks the time on his phone. “Shit, hey, I have work in half an hour, so I gotta go. See you guys at school?”

In unison, Wonwoo and Mingyu say, “See you,” as Jihoon walks away. Their eyes narrow at each other. “Jinx.”

“I clearly got that one,” Mingyu lies.

Wonwoo doesn’t put much effort in trying to argue his way out of losing a jinx. “Clearly,” he parrots.

With a soft smile, Mingyu hides his hands in his pockets and asks, “Do you want to, uh, see the picture now?”

“No,” Wonwoo answers, “I want to see the rest of the exhibit before seeing your stuff.”

“Yeah, sure, just”—Mingyu extends his arm out for Wonwoo to lead the way—“go wherever, I guess. I’ll follow until you’re done.”

They snake through the crowd of people, follow a sign that directs them to the exhibit, and start looking at the pictures hung on the walls. Following the theme, all the pictures make it obvious that they have something in common: They all relate to Autumn. Each picture has a paragraph stapled to the wall, close to the bottom right of the frames. They explain the meanings, the symbolism, the wordy stuff that no one else gets until you point them out. Names are engraved on little plaques below the frames.

Partway through the exhibit, Seungkwan shows up. Mingyu walks away from Wonwoo to talk to his friend privately.

“You actually pulled through with that Wonwoo picture?” Seungkwan whispers, grinning.

Mingyu smiles sheepishly. “Yes? I just… I thought it was fitting.”

“That picture is _so_ going to get you some mad di—”

“Dude, shut up, there are _people_ here.”

Seungkwan covers his mouth in mock surprise. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Mingyu murmurs, “What am I going to do with you,” and sighs. He lifts his head to look for Wonwoo, catching him in front of a picture of a hamster riding the back of a chicken through a rain of falling leaves. He’s smiling, shoulders shaking as he laughs to himself, and the corners of Mingyu’s lips tug upwards. _Padum, padum._

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Mingyu wipes away his smile and looks at Seungkwan, his cheeks turning a rosy color. “What?”

“Your face”—Seungkwan does a circular motion around his own, souring his expression—“it’s disgusting. You look all in-love and shit.”

Mingyu frowns. “My face is always like this…”

“Ever since you guys started talking, it has,” Seungkwan teases.

“I hope you drown in a pit of acid.”

 

—

 

Seungkwan leaves around the time Wonwoo starts walking towards Mingyu. “This is your alone time with Mr. Hottie,” he says, “so I’ll respect your space and leave.” Mingyu opens his mouth to demand that Seungkwan stays, but he covers his ears and refuses to listen.

“I’m ready to see your picture now,” Wonwoo tells him.

Mingyu scowls at the door Seungkwan walked out of, then brings his attention to his tutor. “It’s, uh, somewhere back there. I’ll take you, I guess.”

Wonwoo laughs, a light _hah,_ and says, “Kind of expected you to do that”

“Ah, right, OK, let’s go.” When Mingyu turns around, back facing the latter, he pinches his stomach to get rid of the sick feeling inside. “The picture. Right.”

When they reach the back of the exhibit, Wonwoo’s steps slow for a bit. Mingyu looks over his shoulder to see him, the gymnast in his stomach doing another somersault as he notices the amazement in his tutor’s eyes. That’s approval, he thinks, right?

Wonwoo lets out a breathless, “Wow, this is crazy,” and walks closer. He looks at Mingyu and points at the paper stapled to the wall. “May I?”

Mingyu’s lips turn into a straight line as he says, “Go ahead.”

Wonwoo reads:

_In a room of pumpkins, leaves and the beauty of autumn captured by artists through the lens of digital cameras, I’d like to start with this: Wonwoo is not seasonal. Wonwoo is year-round, yet shows up when you least expect it but for good reasons. But here—a real smile, crinkled nose, slitted eyes, a laugh heard without actually hearing it—he reminds me of exactly what autumn should be: Warmth by the fire, surrounded by crisp air. Meet Wonwoo Jeon, the boy of four season smiles._

When Wonwoo finishes reading, he stills. He doesn't move, doesn't do much to show appreciation, and blinks, mouth slightly agape like he’s trying to decide what he should say. Then, slowly, he turns his head to look up at Mingyu. As Mingyu looks into his eyes to read his expression, all he finds is surprise and words that he can't say.

“So,” he starts, “what do you think?”

Wonwoo closes his mouth and swallows before softly replying, “I’m thinking a lot of things, but I like it.” He takes a couple steps to the left to look at the picture again. “Is this really what I look like from your perspective?”

Mingyu follows, standing behind Wonwoo. “When we sit down, yeah. Standing, however…” He makes a gesture to compare their heights. “I only see your hair,” he jokes.

Wonwoo cracks a smile. “Asshole,” he murmurs. He stares at the picture a while longer, examining the small details of it. “How odd.”

“What is?”

“The picture. I don't look so bad.” He cranes his neck, looking up at Mingyu through his lashes. He nudges the photographer’s side. “Kudos to you, Gyu.”

 _Padum, padum._ “Oh. Thanks.”

“Am I allowed to take a picture of this and send it to my mom,” he asks, “or will security come after me?”

“They’ll come after you, but I can, uh, like, text it to you.”

“With the note?”

Mingyu’s ears turn red. “Wha— Why would you want the paragraph?”

“To show my mom. She likes stuff like this.”

“Uh”—Mingyu’s feet shuffle, insecurities and shyness evident—“and how exactly would you define ‘stuff like this’?”

“She likes it when people are nice to me.”

 _When people are nice to me._ That means Mingyu’s doing the right thing. At this point, they can become friends. His nose scrunches as he tries not to smile, looking away so Wonwoo won’t notice.

Friends with Wonwoo Jeon. Imagine that.

“I’ll send that, too.” He looks down and wiggles his toes in his shoes. “Just remind me so I don’t forget.”

Then, before Wonwoo can say anything back, a woman with hollowed cheeks and a pencil skirt shows up and calls everyone to the banquet room to announce the winners. Mingyu sits at his reserved seat in the front, leaving Wonwoo somewhere in the back near the buffet table. The photographer sits between a kid who looks no older than fifteen and a hipster college student that smells of freshly brewed coffee. He looks back to look for Wonwoo but doesn't see him through all the people.

“Welcome”—He faces the stage, attention drawn to the host—“to the fourth anniversary of the Talent Association’s Autumn Photography Contest.”

She introduces herself, talks some bullshit about how the contest came to life, says it wouldn't be possible without the talented contestants (cheesy, Mingyu notes), and it all lasts for about half an hour before she pulls up a slide of all the pictures. Mingyu’s picture shows up towards the end, and his ears turn red again when she reads his note to the audience. The crowd claps, louder than the previous pictures, and he plays with his dog tag necklace to ease his nerves.

Four pictures later, the host announces, “And the winner is…” Fingers crossed, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip chewed by his front teeth, Mingyu internally prays that they call out his name. “Mingyu Kim from Kent Academy!"

His eyes almost pop out of their sockets when he opens them, the sound of obligatory clapping in his ears. He slowly gets up, hides his dog tie in his button up, adjusts the rest of his outfit, and pats down any possible stray hairs. Walking up to the podium, he accepts the medal and certificate given to him.

“Would you like to say a few words?”

 _Fuck._ He doesn't have anything prepared. “Uh”—The host takes him by the biceps and scoots him a few steps over to the podium, adjusting the microphone for him—“thank you for this award. I… didn’t really think I would win. I just wanted a response from the audience. But I _did_ win, so… yeah.” Crickets. “Um, I’d like to thank my little sister and her cat for helping me get dressed. And I’d like to thank my best friends for helping me out. And shoutout to Mr. Carson for his support!” Someone in the midsection coughs. “Oh, right, biggest thanks to Wonwoo for being my model and letting me use this picture.” By the desserts, Mingyu sees Wonwoo pause mid-chew, licking away the powder of his jelly-filled donut. Mingyu laughs. “Save a donut for me, please.”

The host claps when she realizes his improvised speech is over, and the rest of the audience follows. Two men enter the stage with a big check and tell him to smile for the cameras. Finally, the exhibition and banquet end.

“I saved you a glazed,” Wonwoo says when they meet again, handing him a paper plate and napkin.

Mingyu grins and takes a large bite out of the ring. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo watches Mingyu take in the rest of the donut in his third bite. “Chill before you vomit.”

Mingyu wipes his hands with his napkin and shrugs. “I was hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“Exactly.” He glances out the window. “Hey, what time is sunset?”

“Uh, about five-ish?” Wonwoo answers. “Why?”

“Let’s, uh…” Mingyu hesitates. “Do you mind spending a few extra hours with me?”

“Depends on what we’ll be doing in those few hours.”

“I’ll take you to my dad’s office,” he says, curling his hands into balls in the pockets of his jacket. “There’s something I want to show you.”

There’s another _padum_ when Wonwoo agrees, and this time it’s harder, demanding, and tells Mingyu that he’s moving too fast.

 

—

 

The lobby of the building is only occupied by a receptionist, a couple applicants waiting to get called up for interviews, a businessman talking on the phone, and the janitor. Mingyu calls out the name of the receptionist and waves. She kindly waves back and then continues with her work. He points at the elevators and tells Wonwoo to follow him.

“So… are we _allowed_ here?” Wonwoo asks.

Mingyu presses the button that points up. “Define ‘allowed’.”

Wonwoo lightly hits his arm, looking around for any people who could possibly be watching them “Dude, we’ll get in trouble.”

“Relax,” Mingyu says, “I do it all the time and no one ever seems to care.”

“But _I’m_ with you this time, so… you know… won’t we—”

“Being with you only makes it more fun.” The elevator dings. “It gets lonely up there.”

They walk inside, Mingyu selects the top floor, and Wonwoo leans his head back against the elevator mirror. “You must really hate not having someone around you,” he sighs.

And he does. The idea of just sitting there, feeling isolated and limited from everything else, is terrifying to Mingyu. As far as he can remember, he has only experienced loneliness the first year of losing his memory, and it sucked. He doesn't want to go through that ever again.

“Spot on, Jeon,” he says.

The elevator stops two times for a worker who transfers from the third to the seventh floor. Her heels click as she walks away, and Mingyu glances down and watches her hips move side to side. When the elevator doors close again, Wonwoo scoffs.

“What?” Mingyu asks.

“She’s in her, like, early thirties,” Wonwoo says.

It takes a moment for Mingyu to understand what he’s implying. He goes, “Shit, no, it’s not like that.”

“OK.”

“Really.”

Wonwoo laughs. “I’m just saying ‘OK’, Gyu.”

“‘OK’ can mean a lot of things.”

“This ‘OK’ just means ‘OK’.”

Mingyu still doesn't get it, but he doesn't think Wonwoo will really explain, so he decides he’s pretty fine with not knowing what Wonwoo’s ‘OK’ means. That’s how it is with a lot of things when it comes to Wonwoo: Sometimes, you just have to drop the curiosity and take what you get. It’s a rule in the imaginary “Hanging Around Wonwoo” guidebook.

It takes a few moments for Mingyu to realize he’s been staring at Wonwoo. His tutor is playing with the sleeves of his coat, buttoning and unbuttoning them to busy himself. His wrists are so small, it looks like the coat is swallowing him whole. It gets Mingyu thinking.

“You know what people say about you, right?”

Wonwoo looks up and asks, “What do you mean?”

“Like, no one really knows you”—The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing a yellow-lit hallway—“and I don't think Jun knows you all that much either. Just assuming. If you are ever brought up, people always say ‘I don't really know him’, and that’s it. They don't say that you're introverted or cold as fuck. They know nothing.” The doors almost close, so Mingyu reaches for a button and keeps them open. They walk out and he leads them to the left of the two-way hallway. “Why is that?”

“We’ve been over this, Gyu”— _There he goes with that nickname again_ —“I prefer being alone.”

Mingyu sighs and clicks his tongue. “I still don't get it. Loneliness sucks.”

“Personal preference, I guess,” Wonwoo replies. “It’s not like people really want to get to know me.”

“I did. Still do,” Mingyu admits. He tries not to notice Wonwoo smiling up at him. “I think everyone wishes to know what’s behind that introvert act you put up every day.”

“Wow,” he snickers, “seems like you always know exactly what to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Mingyu glares, but Wonwoo winks when their eyes meet, so he quickly turns away and holds his breath until they arrive at his dad’s office. “It’s funny whenever your face gets red,” Wonwoo teases as Mingyu tries unlocking the door, “because you always look like you’ll piss your pants.”

He releases the breath he’s been holding when the door finally unlocks. “It’s a medical condition,” he bullshits, and Wonwoo bursts out laughing at that. Smiling, he opens the door to welcome them in. “So, uh, here’s my dad’s office.”

As he removes his jacket and throws it over the couch, Wonwoo says, “Everything looks… untouched.”

“I take that as a good thing.” Mingyu walks to the beverage cart to start heating up hot water. “Tea or coffee?”

Wonwoo replies, “Tea, please. Two sugars.”

The room glows in a muted citrus color, a result of all the windows being shielded. Wonwoo asks if he’s allowed to see the view, and Mingyu grabs a remote and presses a button. The blinds lift themselves, and Wonwoo watches in awe. He sits in front of a window, on the floor, admiring the urban view.

By the time the tea is finished, Mingyu joins Wonwoo beside him, handing over a cup. Their knees barely touch, fingers hugging their drinks for warmth.

The journalist looks out, able to hear the sound of busy streets honk and whir. The city’s buildings are so astonishingly tall, even at this view. They look greater than man, although created by man, and glitter scatters the exterior walls as people occupy the rooms inside. Color clouds travel sideways while the sun travels down, creating it’s own x-y axis for architecture and urban life. The best part, Mingyu thinks, is the strips of paint transitioning so subtly behind the skyline, you barely notice any difference.

A rustle of fabric interrupts Mingyu’s thoughts. He looks at Wonwoo, whose hands are in his pockets, and gets thrown off by the way the outside colors reflect against the high points of his face and shadow parts that shy away from the light. His usual dark eyes turn into a creamy milk chocolate, as his lashes appear longer. It’s so beautiful and so ethereal that Mingyu forgets to breathe for the longest time.

“It’s pretty,” Wonwoo murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to the glass window. He sighs, closes his eyes, then hums. “Imagine never seeing this once in your life. Those people, I feel sorry for them.”

It takes a moment for Mingyu to quietly say, “Yeah. It’s a shame.” But deep down, he really wants to add, “And if only you could look at yourself like this. I want you to see.” Just like the people who’ve never seen the sky this way, Mingyu pities those who’ve never seen faces and smiles like Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo looks at him, eyes lit with a blazing fire and skin tinted a color softer than red, harsher than yellow. “What?” he asks.

A second. Two. Maybe three.

Finally, “You look good in orange.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRUH, BOOM BOOM IS SO GOOD AND THE MV GOT ME ROLLING ON THE FLOOR AND THE ENTIRE ALBUM IS AMAZING I LOVE SEVENTEEN. my cat loves listening to 웃음꽃 and 기대 lmao he snuggles w/ my phone whenever they play
> 
> i feel like shit rn bc i'm sick, but hopefully i'll feel better before next monday bc i'm going to disneyland for the first time in 10 years
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: say you won't let go - james arthur


	7. Keep Me Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonwoo's words always seem to stick, just like the way melted marshmallows do.

Mingyu’s getting a bit tired of Dr. Chung’s therapy room.

For one, there’s the squeaky leather seating. It’s all old, torn, worn out, ugly, and bit musty if you pay attention. And the air conditioning (Seriously? In winter? What the fuck?). And the awkward waiting room. And the cheap coffee she offers. And the long talks—God, the talks—that are supposed to lead somewhere, but stay right where they are. Most of all, he’s getting tired of the annual reminder that his lost memories will never return. He’s hopeless.

Dr. Chung is pretty blunt about Mingyu’s amnesia completely ruining his childhood, and she reminds him of it every year. It’s always the straight up, hard-hitting, monotoned reminder, “Your mind is stuck in the now. Make it go to the past.” Then she’d flash a not-really-a-smile type of smile, the kind people make when they’re forced to greet an old family friend that they don't recall ever meeting, and shake his hand before calling his parents in for an update on his progress (or lack of it).

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway? How is Mingyu supposed to “leave the present” and “go to the past”? He isn't Marty McFly, he can't just _do_ that. And Mingyu knows she means that he needs to really _think_ long and hard about what he used to do, maybe even visit old places for everything to kick back. But he _has_ done that—multiple times. He once camped in the field of his old elementary school, waiting for some magical fairy mumbo jumbo to happen, but a young kindergarten teacher—premature wrinkles, just mascara, frail hands, brown hair that reached up to her shoulders—drove him back home before someone else could find him there. He left without remembering anything at all.

“I don’t even need a psychologist,” he tells his dad on their way to Dr. Chung’s office. “I’m not, like, mentally ill. It’s not like I’m schizophrenic or OCD. I’m OK.”

But his dad goes _tsk_ and responds, “Of course you’re none of those, you aren’t crazy. This will just help with the anxiety and that ‘explosive’ temper of yours.”

“I don’t go animalistic with my temper, dad,” Mingyu counters, “I just exaggerate when I’m angry.”

“Denial is your worst enemy in your case, Mingyu. The temper and anxiety are side effects of the amnesia.”

Their dispute ends there, implied. No one ever wins these things because they never actually finish, and perhaps it’s both good and bad. They can save their breaths, use the air for better purposes, and continue without any grudges against each other. It sounds like good parenting, the act of being a good child, whatever, but Mingyu and his dad remain distant. That’s how it has always been, anyway.

So he leaves it, unable to find any energy to say anything else. He cranes his neck to rest it against the window and looks out, a bitter taste in his mouth.

Now, sitting on the same reclining seat he has always sat in, he’s waiting for Dr. Chung to finish brewing the same instant coffee she has always offered him. She places a white mug on the coaster adjacent to Mingyu, all teeth when she sits in her chair.

She’s going to take a sip of her coffee in 3… 2… 1…

Mingyu smiles, looking away when he sees the mark of red lipstick on the brim of her mug. Same, same, same—that’s how it always is when it comes to fixing everything that’s wrong with him.

“Have you noticed any change in your memory?” Dr. Chung asks, trading her coffee with a clipboard and pen.

She probably expects the same answer—“Not really, no”—but Mingyu sighs at the repetitiveness. He knows he won't be remembering shit if this goes on. If his doctor won't try, he might as well do it.

“Doctor”—He adjusts the way he’s sitting, leaning to the side and propping his head up with his arm—“what do you think my response will be?”

Dr. Chung blinks, unable to respond. With a click, she starts writing her first line of notes, and Mingyu rolls his eyes and flops back. _What’s with this lady and notes? She’ll remember everything if she just listens._

Maybe it’s a psychiatrist thing, he thinks. The sit, half-listen, click, scribble down routine probably becomes a habit after a while, and, shit, maybe they’re born with it. Who knows, maybe psychiatrists take notes as their friends talk to them—probably have their birthdays written down, time and season and everything.

“You’re finally getting comfortable,” she tells him, clicking her pen. Mingyu winces, and maybe it’s from the tone of her voice. “This is… different. A good different, I think.”

“At this rate, do you think I’ll be remembering anything at all,” he deadpans, then huffs to blow away the strand of hair poking his eye.

Dr. Chung makes a face, everything appearing flat, and she looks about done with Mingyu at this point. It’s been less than 10 minutes. “Losing hope?”

“All of it.”

She sighs. “Mingyu, I know that you want to remember, and I feel like your brain isn’t the only thing that’s stopping you. I think it’s time for us to start having family therapy sessions.”

Right away, he responds, “No.”

“Why not?”

“My mom’s emotional, my dad’s a heartless man, and my sister is hardheaded,” he explains, knocking his head with his knuckles to emphasize Minah’s stubbornness. “It’ll turn into family bonding time.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Right now, no. Later? Maybe.” He presses his lips into a straight line, thinking. “I’m OK with not remembering, Dr. Chung. Really. My dad just keeps sending me here to help with my sudden outbursts and anxiety.”

Dr. Chung looks apologetic as she asks, “Has senior year been stressful for you, Mingyu.”

Before he can say yes, he gives it a second thought. Wonwoo suddenly comes to mind, how much he’s helped in the little time they’ve been spending together as tutor and student. Grades aren’t a problem anymore.

“Uh, no, actually,” Mingyu answers, surprised by his own words, “I’m… pretty OK. I think Wonwoo’s been helping a lot with the stress.”

“Who’s Wonwoo?”

“My tutor”—He pauses, looking around the room for a moment—“and my driver. It’s a long story, you probably don’t want to waste your time hearing it.”

“Oh, no, I have plenty of time. Psychiatrist, remember?” She grins and puts her clipboard away, waiting for Mingyu to go on. “I’m supposed to listen to you talk. The more you talk, the more I can help.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It’s a psychiatrist thing.”

“Hm.” Mingyu lifts his legs up to cross them on the recliner. “Maybe I should start from the beginning. I first met Wonwoo freshman year…”

 

—

 

The closer Mingyu gets to school, the stronger the smell of hot grills and burning wood gets. They are the scents of Kent Academy’s annual Winter Bonfire, where all the seniors rally out to the field at night and sit around a fire as some perform and others reminisce old moments.

At least, that’s the purpose of it.

But knowing his classmates, Mingyu already knows what to expect: There will be implied divisions separating the hypebeasts from the internet kids, someone might end up getting sent to the hospital for sticking their hand in the fire, journalism students will rip through the personal space of others for pictures and interviews, and teachers will pretend to not notice the water bottles that are so obviously filled with cheap vodka.

Pulling over, Mingyu’s dad asks, “Are you sure you have a ride home?”

“Seokmin is dropping me off,” Mingyu answers, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be fine, it’s OK.”

“OK, good. I have a meeting tonight and I don't want you walking alone or calling an Uber to stop by. I don’t trust that company.” Mingyu’s dad carefully watches him step out the car and grab his drawstring backpack from the backseat. “Call your mom if you need to get picked up. Stay warm.”

“Seriously, dad, I’ll be OK.”

With that, Mingyu closes the door and walks off, the sound of his dad driving off behind him. He heads for the gates—you can’t miss it; the decorations are a bit overdone, honestly, with the string lights and fake flowers and a big sign that says, “WELCOME, SENIORS,” and they’re all probably from last year’s Prom—and shows his student ID to the dean, who’s guarding the entry in case any underclassmen want to sneak in.

He’s a bit late, it’s pretty obvious, but he isn’t missing anything important, that’s for sure. The seniors are just roasting marshmallows together, One Direction playing on the speakers. Teachers are talking over hot chocolate, members of student council are going around with plastic bags to pick up trash and passing out more marshmallows, and (he thinks) his friends are standing closest to the fire pit. He pulls out his phone to check the time. 5:45 p.m.. He’s just in time for Battle of The Sexes and gingerbread decorating.

People don’t usually get hyped for things like this in high school, but it’s different when you’re a senior because everything is for _you_ so that you graduate with good memories and whatever the fuck the school wants you to believe. You’ll forget a lot of it, sure, but it’s fun anyway. The school would do anything to please you, especially at Kent Academy. And, yeah, the gingerbread decorating seems childish, but what else can you expect from the people who run these events?

When Mingyu kicks over a rock and shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, he hears, “Marshmallow?” and flinches back. He almost doesn’t recognize the person under all the makeup she’s wearing, and… are those highlights in her hair?

“Oh, thanks, Sue,” he says, taking the marshmallow from her hand and shoving it in his mouth. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Do you have any more of those?”

Her grin turns shy. “That was, uh. You’re supposed to roast the marshmallows first.”

Mingyu replies, with stuffed cheeks and a muffled voice, “Stress eating. It’s how I control my emotions.”

“Are you sad?”

“Nope!” He continues his walk, waving at Sue with powdered fingers. “I’m going to the bonfire now. Bye-bye!”

He ignores her call for him to wait, and his stomach twists in guilt as he does. Jihoon was right, he really should stop talking to younger girls. The ones he talks to always want to show him off, like, “Hey! I’m sort of dating a senior!” And sometimes they spam his phone because they aren’t sure if he received their texts or not, when, really, he’s been ignoring them as much as possible. Sue is none of these, thank God, but she stopped being near relevant ever since Mingyu got his car taken away.

Somewhere between his thoughts, Mingyu finds Jihoon offering Janice marshmallows to roast, the others laughing amongst themselves. He sneaks up behind Jihoon, presses his finger to his lips when Janice sees him, then shouts, “JIHOON LEE, HELLO!”

Jihoon doesn’t react the way Mingyu expects him to, which sucks because now Janice is laughing at him and calling him a fool and telling Soonyoung about it. Mingyu’s lips twitch as he calls Jihoon a heartless pebble, and Seokmin giggles. “Pebble,” he says to himself, “ha. Funny.”

“How was your therapy thing?” Jihoon asks, blowing on his marshmallow to cool it down.

“Nothing special, but it was a bit different than what I’m used to.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

Mingyu almost says, _Wonwoo. Mostly Wonwoo,_ but he realizes that’s not the best thing to answer with, so he instead goes, “Uh, you know, school and family. She didn’t seem interested in hearing anything else.”

“Dr. Chung’s hot,” Soonyoung says, then opens his mouth for Janice to feed him a marshmallow. She grabs the back of his head and shoves the marshmallow in his mouth, making him sputter.

“Stop looking at older women,” she bites. “You always call Mingyu’s mom hot, too, and it’s weird.”

He holds both sides of her face and coos. “Aw, is my little bean jealous?” He puckers his lips to kiss her, and Janice struggles to move away from his grip. He smooches her cheek, leaving bits of melted marshmallow on her skin, then laughs. “Look at you, you’re adorable!”

She jabs his gut, wiping her cheek when she’s free. “You’re sticky, Soonyoung Kwon.”

“Wait, you call my mom hot?” Mingyu invades.

Soonyoung blinks. “Uh, no. When have I ever—” His gaze shifts to Janice, whose arms are crossed and an eyebrow is lifted expectantly. “OK, maybe, like, once or twice.”

Mingyu’s face sours and he almost gags. “Oh, that’s nasty, man.”

“Where do you think you get your looks from, Kim? Your dad is always frowning and glaring at people.”

“He’s a…” He tries to find a word to describe his dad, but nothing accurate enough really hits him. “Let’s just say some events changed him.”

“Like what?” Seokmin asks.

Mingyu shrugs. “I dunno, that’s just what my mom always tells me.”

Jihoon opens his mouth to say something but gets interrupted by the counselor’s announcement of starting Battle of The Sexes. They all split—girls on the side of the bonfire closest to the building, while boys are on the opposite—and prepare for the three rounds of games and challenges.

“Segregation,” Jihoon sighs, “is still a problem in the 21st century. Wake up, America.”

Soonyoung snorts, hitting his shoulder. “It’s B _attle of The Sexes,_ Lee, geez.”

Mingyu and his friends love battle of the sexes, and they’re about the only ones who ever participate in it. They love competition, take even the smallest failures to heart, and are the reason why people lose confidence when going against them. Take it as a good or bad thing, but Mingyu is proud it’s that way.

It starts with gingerbread decorating. Participants crowd around the fire for light, taking the store bought gingerbread men and royal icing the StuCo members hand them. At the start signal, everyone rushes to decorate in the 60 seconds they’re given. When Mingyu finishes his, nine seconds left to spare, he looks over Soonyoung’s shoulder, then laughs at the unmistakable penis he has drawn on his cookie.

“Dude, what are you _doing?”_ he wheezes, pointing at the gingerbread man and attracting the attention of others. “It’s so small, what the fuck!”

Everyone else in their area joins Mingyu in his fits of laughter, making comments and telling Soonyoung he’ll get in trouble if admin sees. So he quickly licks it off, face twisting in disgust and saying the icing is too sweet, sloppily giving it shorts to cover the saliva stain. The girls win in the end, and he tells everyone, “I would’ve won if I didn’t lick it off, dammit.”

Mingyu doesn’t participate in the second challenge, unwilling to do anything else, and walks to the snack table instead for a bottle of water. There, he sees Wonwoo looking down at a tray of cookies, eyebrows drawn together as he tries to decide. Mingyu smiles and steps closer, their shoulders close to touching.

“Don’t get oatmeal,” he advises, “the raisins look like chocolate chips, and no one really likes raisins.”

Wonwoo looks up and grins, going _tch_ when he laughs. “Way to generalize.”

“You like raisins?”

“Nope”—He grabs an oatmeal cookie anyway, taking a large bite and chewing happily—“but oatmeal cookies are still good.”

Mingyu’s smile grows as he reaches for a chocolate chip cookie. “How daring of you.”

“Mingyu!” They turn and see Jeonghan walking towards them. Mingyu’s smile falls, as well as his gaze, and he takes a large step away from Wonwoo. “Hey, man,” he says, patting his shoulder, “haven’t seen you in forever. You didn’t even show up at my party.”

“I did,” Mingyu corrects, “you just weren’t there, I guess.”

“OK, that was my fault, I’m sorry, but we’re cool, right? You still had fun, so that’s what matters.” He turns and looks at Wonwoo, forming a square smile and raising his hand. “Hi, Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo says, “Hey,” but leaves as soon as he does.

“Cold as always,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Whatta man.”

Mingyu starts to get annoyed fast. The weight of Jeonghan’s arm feels heavier, his voice seems to battle against the iciness of the air, and his overall presence is burdensome. Shrugging him off, Mingyu apologizes and excuses himself before joining the bonfire again.

They’ve already reached the talent competition, the part Mingyu's friends have been looking forward to the most. Most people are singing, and there's those few who clown around and freestyle rap instead. As Mingyu looks through the crowd, he sees Seokmin and Yuna sitting across from each other, surrounded by the rest of their class. Yuna’s singing “Santa Tell Me,” and Mingyu laughs at the imaginary hearts he can see floating around Seokmin’s head. _Lovesick puppy._

“And the winner for the talent show is…” The students pat their legs, creating a drumroll. “The boys team!”

It turns chaotic as the boys cheer and the girls protest. Now standing behind Jihoon once again, Mingyu only gets ignored, treated as a servant to hold the blanket his best friend tells him to hang on to. Mingyu thinks, Maybe I should just hang with Wonwoo for now, then walks away with the blanket. When Jihoon turns, Mingyu’s already gone.

He finishes his cookie while walking around in search of Wonwoo. Eventually, he finds him sitting in front of the fire, knees pressed to his chest and hands held out for warmth.

“Hey,” he grunts, sitting next to his tutor.

Wonwoo’s fingers curl in front of the fire, the light moving to the left side of his face as he looks at Mingyu. “Hi again,” he says back.

“So I went to visit my psychiatrist before I came here, right,” Mingyu starts. He repositions himself to something more comfortable, tugging the blanket over his shoulders, “and, as always, she was pretty boring and offered some ugly coffee, but this appointment was different from others, which honestly makes me super happy.”

It takes a while for Wonwoo to say anything, maybe less time than it feels like. His eyes seem to search for something in the journalist’s eyes, smile, and overall expression. “Why are you telling me this?” he finally asks. “You make it sound like I’ve always known you’ve been visiting a psychiatrist.”

“I thought you knew?” Wonwoo’s eye twitches when Mingyu cocks his head, dog-like, and it looks like the Snapchat dog filter belongs on his face. “Well, I guess you know now. Don't worry, I’m not, like, OCD or anything.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn't trying—”

“Don't you think it’s a bit weird that we’re talking right now?” His hands fall, and he tucks them under his butt to keep them warm. “We usually talk when it’s less… busy.”

Mingyu suddenly feels insecure, regretful for saying the wrong thing, unsure if Wonwoo really wants him to go on. He really wasn't trying to be funny, he swears, it sort of just slipped. Now that he thinks of it, maybe he did say something messed up. Maybe he made it sound like being OCD was a bad thing, and, honestly, that’s not what he meant. Shit, he probably looks like a jerk right now in Wonwoo’s eyes.

“Well, uh”—The fire cracks—“it’s not like it’s forbidden for us to talk. A lot of people know we talk, I think. We were talking not too long ago”

Wonwoo says, “I’m sorry, but I’m just afraid people will start saying things.”

Mingyu laughs, but it doesn't sound mean. It’s comforting. “Wonwoo, this is Kent. People could care less about what we do, and if a rumor does spread then it dies off in, like, three to five days.”

“OK then…” The way Wonwoo purses his lips makes his cheeks appear bigger, fuller. It’s downright adorable. “So. Psychiatrist. For your memory, I assume?”

“You know about my amnesia?”

“I’ve always known. I think almost everyone knows.”

“Oh.” He looks away, wondering if the amnesia made anyone think differently of him. He knows he’s nice, he’s never mean on purpose, and everyone knows that. But what is he to them now? “Well, yeah, kind of for my memory loss. It’s also for my anxiety and, uh, outbursts.”

Wonwoo nods, shoulders curling closer to his body as he shivers. “That’s good. I hope things improve with your memory and everything else.”

When he releases a shaky breath, visible in white puffs as it flows out, Mingyu scoots closer and stretches his arm out to offer the extra space to Wonwoo. “C’mon,” he insists after Wonwoo shakes his head, “you’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo huffs.

“No you aren’t.”

“I know”—He crosses his arms—“but I don’t want to share a blanket.”

Mingyu grins. “Huh,” he huffs sarcastically, “you’re a lot more stubborn than I thought you’d be.”

He pulls Wonwoo close and hugs him by the shoulders with one arm to drape the blanket over him, ignoring his tutor’s string of _stopstopstop._ Then they stay like that, in front of the fire and sharing each other's warmth.

It’s a nice feeling, being this intimate even in front of all these people, but Mingyu doesn’t think he can tell Wonwoo that. He also can’t tell Wonwoo about the fluttering in his chest, the swirls in his stomach, the late night thoughts of his smile and eyes and laugh, the way his words always seem to stick to Mingyu like glue, the genuine happiness he feels whenever he hears someone mention his tutor’s name, the way he sometimes writes “Wonwoo Jeon” on the wings of his butterfly doodles in class. He definitely can’t tell Wonwoo he has a solid, still growing crush on him. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, because it’s likely that Wonwoo doesn’t like him back.

And, while his brain lectures his heart and stomach to sit still, to stop racing each other to who knows where, to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t notice Wonwoo hesitantly looking at Jun on the other side of the fire.

 

—

 

Seokmin throws up all the marshmallows and cookies he ate just before the principal does her “Hasta la Vista, Seniors,” speech, and Yuna kindly volunteers to drive him home safely. Soonyoung wiggles his fingers as they make their way to the gate, Seokmin’s arm over Yuna’s shoulders for support, then coos at, quote, “...how friggen adorable they are.” But Mingyu complains once they’re gone, because who’s going to take him home now?

“Ji—”

“Ah,” Jihoon cuts Mingyu off, pinching his lips together to shut him up, “don’t ask me.”

Mingyu looks to the side and says, “Soonyoung?” when Jihoon lets him free, but he’s running away with Janice, already way too far to catch up to. “You guys really are the worst friends.”

Jihoon shrugs in mock guilt. “Hey, in our defense, you never gave us rides. Why don’t you ask Wonwoo?”

Mingyu snaps his fingers and points at his best friend. “Good idea,” he praises, “I’ll do that, but this doesn’t make up for your asshole-ness.”

He jogs to Wonwoo’s van, legs picking up speed when it farts and the headlights turn on. His body collides with the passenger door, cheek squishing against the glass, and it startles Wonwoo so much his shriek can be heard from outside.

“Friend!” he shouts. “Please take me home!”

Wonwoo leans over to roll down the window, cursing at him the moment it’s open. “For the sakes of all things living, can you _not_ do that? Gosh, I almost laid a fuckin’ egg.” He unlocks the door. “Just get in.”

Mingyu fumbles with the door handle, hands too sensitive to the cold metal. By the time he’s inside, he buckles his seatbelt and closes the window.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, sticking his hands in his armpits to warm them up.

Shrugging, Wonwoo says, “I guess it was entertaining.”

On the road, he goes on about his plans for winter break, and he reveals that there really isn’t a lot in his schedule. He compares last year’s winter to this year’s, how he went to Six Flags with his family over break, but is staying at home this time. It’s going to be uneventful winter, that’s for sure.

Apparently Wonwoo won’t be doing much either, but he says that’s how it is ever year, so Mingyu just starts filling himself with regret for complaining. He’s usually either working or eating dinner with Jun’s family or waiting for his mom to get home from work, and it all repeats like any other day. Mingyu can’t relate, because he has his sister and cat to keep him company, no work to do other than write scholarship essays, and his mom prepares dinner for him. He really needs to stop sounding so spoiled.

The van is parked in front of Mingyu’s house in little time and they’re already saying their goodbyes and _see you next year_ ’s. But, as Mingyu parts from the van, his feet stop moving. He thinks hard, playing tug of war with his thoughts. Some parts of him tell him he’s being ridiculous, others tell him to just do whatever he wants, and a small chunk tells him it’s damn cold outside.

He turns and opens the door again, knuckles ashy and pale when they grip the door. He sits, takes a deep breath, then looks at Wonwoo, heart jumping at the way Wonwoo’s eyes literally sparkle as they reflect the porch light behind Mingyu.

“Did you forget something at school?” he asks.

Mingyu shakes his head. “Uh, Wonwoo?” Wonwoo hums and raises his eyebrows, urging him to go on. “I’m free on Tuesday, so I was wondering if you’d like to, um, like, kind of, like, maybe, perhaps go on a date?”

It gets colder, frost forms on their shoulders, and the crickets suddenly forget how to chirp. The world still spins and the neighbor’s light still flickers—everyone else’s lives still go on when you think yours won’t, after all—but none of it feels right. Everything is out of place, even when they’re where they belong.

Mingyu doesn’t stop thinking about the rejection for the rest of the night and the morning after, and he it’ll probably stick for a long time, just like Wonwoo’s others words always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year everyone! i went to disneyland two weeks ago and had so much fun. it really is the happiest place on earth. i couldn’t stop smiling, even while waiting in the long lines. their turkey legs are BOMB and so is their dole whip. it’s also my birthday on friday! AH!
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: something flutters - ra.d


	8. My House is Your House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mingyu is probably the next best thing when it comes to finding home.

Seungkwan is good at a number of things. One, he’s a beautiful singer, without a doubt. Sometimes he’s a little too loud, tries too hard to reach that high note he can’t touch, but he’s still good—amazing, actually. Two, he’s good at making people feel better, especially Mingyu. It’s the jokes, the “I’m here for you,” the smiles that can fill one with enough happiness to last a long, long time. Three, talking about his mother (but it may or may not be a talent, it’s debatable). Mingyu’s sure that everyone Seungkwan knows, or has even talked to, is aware that he absolutely adores her. He’s a mama’s boy, and he walks around with that title on his chest, right next to his GSA badge.

But Seungkwan is also bad at a lot more things, and when Seungkwan is bad at things, he’s _really_ bad at them.

“I’m going to have so many blisters after this,” he complains, knuckles turning white from the death grip he has on the rented skate trainer he’s using. “I can feel them coming in already, ouch.”

Mingyu snickers, briefly huffing into his right hand before returning it to the side of the skate trainer, holding tight so he won’t lose Seungkwan. And most of the skating is just Seungkwan complaining, swearing that he has internal bleeding _somewhere,_ and Mingyu telling him to shut up and enjoy the fact that they are finally hanging out again. It’s been awhile since they’ve had days like this, just them and no one else.

Then again, all their days together are just them and no one else.

“So,” Seungkwan grunts, “how are you and Hot Guy?”

“Who?”

“Wonwoo.”

“Oh.” Mingyu huffs into his hands again, twice. “Well, I asked him out and—”

Seungkwan’s upper half jolts up, his bangs flying away from his forehead. “YOU WHAT?”

Mingyu flinches and says, “Fuck, chill, it was a last second thing.”

“OK, but what makes you think you can do that without mentioning it to me first?” Seungkwan’s hands are moving flippantly now as if his oh-so-annoying high pitched voice isn’t enough. “It’s the number one rule of the ‘Book of Best Friends’: Tell them everything!”

“That’s not even a real book.”

“It totally fucking is!” he squeaks. “You know who wrote it? I did. I make the rules, you follow them, then we live happily as best friends. And because you didn't follow the first rule, your life is seriously screwed up now, holy fuck.”

Mingyu dodges when Seungkwan tries to whack him. “I don’t know, all right? I don’t even know if I _actually_ like him. It was really sudden, you know?” He sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe I was just so caught up in—”

“Nope, bullshit, I call bullshit,” Seungkwan interrupts, loud. Mingyu tells him to keep his voice down, reminding him that there are children around them, but Seungkwan continues, “Don’t pull the overused ‘caught in the moment’ phrase, Kim. You hella like Wonwoo, and it’s a fact.”

Mingyu doesn’t try arguing. “OK, whatever, I know I was being stupid. He rejected me nicely, though, so I guess we’re still cool.”

“Agh, you really are an idiot,” Seungkwan complains, voice cracking. “I didn’t even know you were gay. Well, I knew, but this is the first time you’ve ever kinda confirmed it.”

“I’m undecided, Seungkwan.”

“Excuses. You’ve been undecided for too long, it’s starting to annoy me.” Seungkwan looks away to collect his thoughts and think of anything else to add, and his aura changes when he catches the eye of a stranger outside the rink. “That lady over there has been staring at us all night,” he mumbles.

Mingyu looks up and sees the woman standing behind the glass, perhaps to look out for her children without going on the ice. Their eyes meet, and Mingyu smiles in kind greeting. She looks away.

“She probably thinks we're a thing,” he says, turning back to Seungkwan. “I mean, _I_ would think we’re dating or something if I saw us. Look, we’re sharing a skate trainer. That’s pretty romantic if you ask me.”

Seungkwan gags. “You’re like my brother. No thanks.”

“You’re right,” Mingyu laughs. “Plus, you're not my type.”

“But Wonwoo’s your type.”

“Get over it.”

“If I was Wonwoo,” Seungkwan continues, “you’d _so_ be down to date me.”

Mingyu covers his ears and goes, “LALALALALALAICANTHEARYOULALALALALA,” to block out Seungkwan’s voice as it gets louder, much more annoying, extra as hell.

It’s moments like this when Mingyu thinks he’ll never age. Like this, with Seungkwan and his never-ending happiness, sadness isn’t real, anything is possible, and you are never lonely. Like this, Mingyu knows he has found his other half. And when Mingyu sees his best friend laugh, his piggy nose wrinkled and cheeks rounded and rosy, he does the same, because how can you not be happy with a person like Seungkwan?

 

—

 

Mingyu gets off the bus just before sundown and walks a couple blocks home, a light bounce to his feet. He passes his neighbor’s house, wincing at the sound of shattering glass and laughter coming from inside, and covers his ears when the music gets louder. Picking up the pace, he walks up his concrete doorstep, fumbling for his keys. When he inserts the key in, he hears someone say, “Your neighbors are loud.”

He jumps and shrieks, startled. He turns around and peers down the steps, and his stomach churns when he sees who’s at the bottom. “Wonwoo?”

“Uh, hey.” Wonwoo’s fingers rub against the strap of the duffle bag he’s holding, a small method to calm his nerves. “Jun’s out of town for the next few days, so I was wondering if I could stay here.” He looks at Mingyu, eyes pleading for help behind a facade of dark brown. “Please, it’s just for a night or two. I promise.”

_Stay… here… with me?_

“Um”—Mingyu unlocks the door and steps inside, peeking his head through the open space to keep talking to Wonwoo—“yeah, just. Can you wait for a moment? I’m gonna, you know, ask my parents.”

Mingyu is lost inside the house once Wonwoo nods, climbing up the steps to the second floor. He calls out to his mom, following her voice when she responds. He nearly trips over Sari as she walks from Minah’s room to his.

He rams open the door to his parents’ room, stopping once he catches his mom kneeling by her closet. “Hey,” he exhales, out of breath from the short run. She smiles, “my friend is wondering if he can stay over for the next two days.”

“Jihoon?” she asks, closing a photo album.

“N-no, it’s my friend Wonwoo.”

Just then, Minah runs in with practiced makeup on half of her face, shoving her brother to the wall as she goes, “Let him stay over!”

“Why would _you_ want Wonwoo to sleep here?” Mingyu asks, genuinely surprised. “You don't even know him.”

Minah gives him a look and tries—hence, tries—to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. She blinks instead. “Yeah, but the picture on your desktop screen—”

Then Mingyu slaps his palm over her mouth, keeping it there to shut her up. “So, mother,” he says, struggling to keep Minah still, “is that a yes or a no?”

“Wonwoo can stay over”—Minah’s WOOHOO gets muffled behind Mingyu’s hand, and the eldest grins widely, but tries not to show it—“but get your hand off your sister first.”

Mingyu hesitates, giving Minah a look of distrust and warning. His sister bats her lashes innocently, as if she doesn’t recognize the fact that she’s the ultimate spawn of Satan himself, and he retreats his hand from her face. Then she dashes out the room and heads for the stairs, and Mingyu sputters before racing after her, taking advantage of his long legs to get to the door before her. Their hands grab the doorknob at the same time, Minah’s thin, icy fingers covered by Mingyu’s much larger and much warmer hands. They yank the door wide open and look at Wonwoo, panting. Wonwoo stares back, eyes moving back and forth between the siblings.

“Come in!” Minah invites, nudging her brother’s stomach to give the door more space to open. Wonwoo shyly walks up the steps and enters the house. He stands next to Mingyu as he waits for Minah to close the door, then flinches when she sharply turns around, a big smile on her face. “I’m Minah, Mingyu’s sister,” she says, stretching her hand out for Wonwoo to shake.

“Uh”—Wonwoo glances at Mingyu before bringing his attention to Minah, taking her hand in his—“I’m Wonwoo, Mingyu’s friend.”

Friend. Friend. _Friend._ The word throws Mingyu off, and it takes a few extra seconds for him to process it. Warm and bubbly inside, his shoulders lift to his cheeks and his lips zip to stop his smile from stretching too wide. He internally thanks the large hood of his jacket for covering his face.

“You were the one who helped him win that photography contest, right?” Minah asks. “Oh, yeah, take off your shoes. Do you want something warm? Anything to eat? We have lots of snacks.”

While removing his shoes, Wonwoo laughs a bit and replies, “No, I’m good, but thank you. Uh”—He turns to Mingyu—“where can I, uh, put my stuff?”

“Oh, uh, um,” Mingyu stutters, struggling to respond, “you can leave your bag in my room. Here, I’ll take it up.”

Wonwoo stops Mingyu when the latter reaches for the duffle bag. “I can carry it, it’s OK.”

Mingyu nods. “Let me show you my room then.”

They walk up the stairs, pass the bathroom and Minah’s room, and end in Mingyu’s. Mingyu tells Wonwoo he can put his bag by the door.

“Wow,” Wonwoo murmurs, “your room is really clean. I’m jealous.”

Mingyu looks around. It really is clean now that he thinks of it. Everything has its own place, books are sorted by color and size, the curtains look like they’ve just been washed, the bed sheets don’t have a single crinkle on them, and the drawers are labeled in soft colors. Nothing is bright and loud, as most of the colors are muted or nude. Some of his drawings hang on a bar hammered over his study desk, while the others are pinned around the room, perfectly straight. Standing here is like standing in the room of a model home.

Intrigued, Wonwoo sets his bag down and approaches the drawings, admiring the sketches and unfinished works. As he goes around, he realizes there’s a sort of repetitiveness to Mingyu’s drawings: lakes, cliffs, butterflies, lakes, cliffs, butterflies, lakes, cliffs, butterflies. They’re all of the same places, same things, only drawn at different perspectives. The only things that are different, really, are the types of butterflies that line up on the walls. It’s odd, a bit disturbing, but Wonwoo pushes it aside.

“I’m guessing cliffs and lakes and butterflies are your favorite things to draw?” Wonwoo says, tilting his head at the drawing closest to the door. “Who are these people supposed to be?”

Mingyu looks at the picture. In pencil, the back view of two little boys walking on a dock hand-in-hand is drawn—and, for some reason, Mingyu doesn’t remember drawing that at all. He knows he did, he can feel it in the twitch of his left hand, but his mind can’t comprehend it. It makes him panic a little, makes him overthink, but he remembers Wonwoo’s here, so he cuts off all his thoughts and shrugs.

“I-I don’t really, um, know,” he stutters. He starts using his fingers to count to 100, “I guess they’re sort of just there.”

Wonwoo nods. “Whether it means something or not, it has a feeling to it. It’s almost nostalgic, I guess.” He looks at Mingyu and purses his lips. “You seemed happy when you got home, by the way.”

Mingyu’s ears turn red as he sinks into himself, shrinking away. “Oh, I just got back from ice skating with Seungkwan. You’ve seen him before, right? He was at the gallery we went to.”

“Was he?” Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow in thought. “I don’t remember seeing anyone but Jihoon.”

“He— Oh, right, he left before you guys could meet.” Mingyu shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Maybe it was the hot chocolate I had with Seungkwan, I dunno.”

Wonwoo snickers and warms up his hands in his sweater pockets. “You’re probably just tired. Did you eat yet?”

“I—”

“MINGYU!” They flinch at the sudden breakthrough of Minah’s shouts coming from downstairs. “IT’S TIME TO EAT!”

Mingyu makes a face and turns to the hallway. “Speaking of eating, I have _not_ eaten yet; however, it seems like I will soon.” He makes a gesture that tells Wonwoo to leave the room first and lead the way, and Wonwoo gives an eye smile that makes Mingyu feel the strike of Cupid’s arrow in his chest. “After you.”

They walk downstairs and help set up the table. Wonwoo fills up some glasses of water, enough for all the guests at the table, and his arm stretches over Mingyu’s as he sets them on the table, making the taller tense. Mingyu’s mom and sister then come in with a pot of beef stew and lasagna. With banchan scattered around, lasagna looks like the most unfitting food item on the table.

Everyone sits down, but no one touches anything. When Mingyu hears Wonwoo’s stomach growl, and the others hear it too for sure, he says, “We’re waiting for my dad to get back from work.” He glances at the time on his phone. “He should be here soon, don’t worry.”

And no one expects “soon” to be twenty minutes later when the food gets closer to cold. By then, Mingyu’s mom is reheating the pot of beef stew and Minah’s helping herself, eating lasagna directly from the tray it’s in. Mingyu starts putting lasagna on Wonwoo’s plate, telling him, “Might as well start eating now before you starve,” as the latter says he can wait a while longer.

Dinner is awkward, no question about it. It starts right when Mingyu’s dad gets home, the moment he sits down across from Wonwoo at the table. Really, from there, that’s when it goes dead silent.

“Oh, uh, dad,” Mingyu stutters, standing. He nudges Wonwoo to do the same, “this is Wonwoo, the one who drives me home every day.”

Wonwoo smiles warily and reaches his hand out for a handshake, saying, “Hi, nice to meet you.”

But Mingyu’s dad only glances down at Wonwoo’s hand at first, a little too long and too rude, before shaking it. “Wonwoo, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” They sit down and prepare their plates, although most of the people at the table already have food on them. “Wonwoo Jeon.”

“Korean?”

“Uh, yeah. My mother used to live there for a few years, but moved here.”

“You know”—Mingyu’s dad uses his chopsticks to pick up some cold noodles—“it’s common Korean manners to bow when you meet people, especially your elders. Did she not teach you that?”

Mingyu looks at his dad. “Dad, please.”

“Oh, I’m adopted, not really from Korea.” Everyone’s full attention is on Wonwoo at this point, and the sound of Minah dropping her fork gets overshadowed by him. “I’m not used to Korean customs or anything…” Once he notices the change in everyone's expressions, he smiles and laughs, trying his best to lighten the mood. “Although I’d really like to learn more about my culture! I want to celebrate holidays like Chuseok and— yeah.”

Wonwoo clears his throat and looks down at his place, picking up his fork to eat. Mingyu and his family take it as a sign to forget about the mention of being adopted and start digging into the hard-cooked meal his mom made, and maybe never talk about it again. But Mingyu loses his appetite and goes for soup and half a lasagna slice, a portion way smaller than what he usually has. Wonwoo takes the initiative to force more food onto Mingyu’s plate.

“Don’t eat less because I made things awkward,” Wonwoo whispers to Mingyu, “just eat and don’t make it seem like you pity me, yeah?”

It takes a moment, but Mingyu answers, “All right.”

 

—

 

Mingyu and his mom are alone in the kitchen by the time dinner is over. “Your friend,” she brings up, “he’s very quiet, isn’t he? A little timid, too.”

Mingyu leaves the plates in the sink for her to wash, saying, “Yeah. He doesn’t even talk to me that much, honestly.”

“That must mean he’s a good listener.” His mom shakes excess water off her hands and looks over her shoulder, at her son, lips tugging at the corners. “You gotta be good at one or the other.”

Shrugging, Mingyu responds, “I guess you’re right. Probably why I never listen to you or dad; I talk too much.” He smiles when his mom laughs, the kind of sing-song breaths that could make flowers grow and the sunshine. Behind her, he leans down to prop his chin over her shoulder. “It’s hard to figure him out, though.”

“Maybe you two won’t hit it off as fast as you did with Jihoon and them, but it’s a process.” She dries her hands off with a rag. “Tell your sister to do the dishes,” she instructs, patting Mingyu’s shoulder as she walks out, “I’ll be doing grades upstairs.”

So, as the sounds of her sticky feet fade away and thud up the stairs, Mingyu turns the opposite direction to call up Minah. When he does, Wonwoo walks in. He stands in front of the dishrack, doesn’t look back when Mingyu glances at him, and gently takes the sponge from the latter’s hand. The feeling of Wonwoo’s fingers touching Mingyu’s lingers.

“I’ll do them,” Wonwoo murmurs, squeezing green apple dish soap on the sponge.

Mingyu quickly takes the sponge away from Wonwoo and says, “That’s hilarious. Uh, no, it’s my sister’s turn to do her chores; don’t do them, or else it’ll totally mess up our schedule.”

“Schedule?”

“Because if _you_ do it”—Soap suds start to fly around as Mingyu makes hand gestures—“then that means _I_ do chores _twice_. Like, it goes, me, Minah, me, her again; not me, Wonwoo, me, Minah.”

It seems to take a while for Wonwoo to understand the journalist, but then “100% Complete” flickers over his head as a grin grows and his eyes form crescents. With his wet hand, he reaches up to pat Mingyu’s head and goes, “You’re a special snowflake.” He dries off his hands with a rag and heads upstairs. “I’m gonna go change.”

Mingyu stays still, stone, paying no mind to his damp hair and still burning fingers. Then, once that tiny gymnast in his gut flips far too many times, he punches it. He thinks: All he did was touch your hair and lowkey hold your hand, OK, stop overreacting, calm your shit and get it together, Mingyu Kim—

“Special snowflake, huh?”

He jumps, flailing to catch the sponge that gets tossed in the air. Minah takes it, smirking.

“It’s not what you think,” he babbles, “because I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not that, I swear, that’s the first time he has ever called me that, so don’t draw any conclusions.” Minah opens her mouth, but Mingyu thinks it’s a good idea to threaten her, so— “I’ll post pictures of you sitting in your own poop when you were five, so don’t say a word.”

She turns the faucet on. “OK, that’s fair.” There’s a _clink!_ when she picks up a plate and rinses it, and Mingyu curses at himself for, once again, overreacting. 

Just before he reaches the stairs, the last thing he hears his sister say is, “Goodnight, Special Snowflake!” and the last thing he says to her is, “You’re making it a big deal!”

At his door, Mingyu reaches for the handle but remembers Wonwoo is changing and knocks instead. Upon hearing a, “Come in!” from the other side, he enters. On the floor, Wonwoo’s scrolling through his phone, the screen’s light in his face. He looks up and smiles, and Mingyu punches himself again.

“I wasn’t sure where I could sit,” Wonwoo admits, “so I decided to just sit on the floor.”

“Anywhere,” Mingyu answers, perhaps too quickly, “you can sit anywhere. The beanbag, my computer chair, my bed, in my closet— Wait, that’s weird, why would you want to sit there, what the fuck.”

Wonwoo laughs, and it somehow relaxes Mingyu. “So it’s cool if I chill here for now?” Wonwoo asks, patting the mattress.

“Y-yeah, totally.”

Wonwoo gets up and sits on the bed. He adjusts himself, presses down on the mattress, rubs the Walmart-bought bed sheets, then grins. “Wow, this feels really nice.”

“Oh, it’s actually pretty old and–”

“I have to sleep on the futon at home.”

Mingyu stops talking, closes his mouth, and takes back whatever else he has to say. The memories of Wonwoo’s one-room apartment reel back; he starts to remember the futon, the single bed, the plants on his fireplace—everything. Somehow it feels a bit nostalgic, like he has known that place forever, but it’s just the feeling it gives, the feeling Wonwoo described as his reason to not move out. Then Mingyu looks at Wonwoo and gets hit with all the why’s that make him wonder too much. Why does Wonwoo sleep on a futon? How can he be so impressed by a 7-year-old bed? Why is he here?

Realizing that he has been staring for far too long, Mingyu turns around and faces his closet, grabbing a random shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He tells Wonwoo, “I-I’ll be right back,” and walks out, heading straight for the bathroom.

After shutting the door and locking it, he drops his clothes and looks at himself in the mirror. He thinks, I’m spoiled and unthankful for what I have and I need to start putting other people in consideration because, Lord, Wonwoo would take that bed over his futon any day. Mingyu thinks he put Wonwoo down, made him feel like he isn’t _normal,_ and it makes Mingyu think maybe _he’s_ the one who isn’t normal. He’s not normal, he stands out too much, he’s privileged, he’s not normal, maybe he’s too perfect, he’s not normal, not normal, not normal at all.

Mingyu’s breathing starts to get heavier, released in quick huffs, and once he realizes he’s hyperventilating he grabs the marble of the counter, slanting over. He looks up. He pays attention to the shadows beneath his eyes, the little scar over his eyebrow arch, and the crookedness of his teeth. Finally, he releases a breath of relief.

Mingyu is normal. Good.

He quickly gets dressed, then tosses his clothes in the laundry basket behind him. Sari follows him back to his room, light on her feet as she tries to keep up with Mingyu’s quick steps, and he barely notices her body practically glued to his legs. When he walks in his room again, Sari leaps onto his bed and circles around Wonwoo before curling beside him.

“Hello, cat,” Wonwoo greets, stroking the underside of the cat’s chin, “what’s your name?”

Mingyu’s heart is about to burst at the sight of his crush and hated cat getting along so well. “Her name is Sari. She’s Minah’s cat.”

“I wanna keep her,” Wonwoo jokes. “Can I?”

“Minah would deck me in the throat—with a Katana Sword or some other brutal shit.”

Wonwoo laughs, loud. It makes Mingyu smile and think, I did that. “Totally badass, I love Katana Swords. Every action movie is better with those in them.”

The next two hours are spent playing video games and snacking on the red bean buns Mingyu’s mom leaves for them. Hanging out with Wonwoo isn’t anywhere near designing spreads for the yearbook with Jihoon or bickering with Seungkwan, two things he ironically loves more than hates, but he’s content. They play Overwatch, talk about some of the trivial things that they’ll probably talk about again someday, and blind themselves from the little touches and signs of affection they give each other.

At the end of the night, approximately 1:30 a.m., Mingyu lets Wonwoo sleep on his bed. They get the air mattress together and set it up for Mingyu to sleep in, and after rejecting Wonwoo’s protest—“I can sleep on the floor, it’s okay,” he keeps saying—Mingyu lays down with Sari resting by his feet. Just as he starts falling asleep, he hears Wonwoo speak again.

“Hey, Gyu?”

Mingyu’s eyes shoot open and he says, “Yea—  Ack,” when he lifts his head up and hits the nightstand. “You need something? Water?”

Half-silence speaks for Wonwoo, the mumbling ruckus from the neighbor’s house breaking through the walls. Mingyu sits up and stares at the moonlight glow that casts against Wonwoo’s black hair, waiting. The introvert’s back and shoulders heave before he confesses:

“You’re right. Loneliness does suck.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exams were hell and being inactive made me sad, i miss writing every day. i probs would have more time fpr writing if i didn't sleep so much tho lmao
> 
> quick reasoning for the last line of this chapter (bc i was gone for so long, i feel like pointing this out will refresh your memories): mingyu is always telling wonwoo loneliness sucks, and wonwoo understands that now that he realizes he only has mingyu when jun and his (adopted) mom aren't available.
> 
>  
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: downpour - ioi


	9. Cocoa Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all flowers die in winter.

Mingyu is falling—

—not in love, not for some cruel joke, not out of place, but actually _falling_.

It’s somewhere around eight in the morning, and all he wants is a glass of water. He rises from his air mattress, opens the bedroom door and trudges down the hallway, but skips a step halfway down. _Thump, thump, clonk!_ He groans when his head hits the wall, a quick and dull pain on the side of his head, then whines at the way his foot looks. That doesn't look right, he thinks, that does _not_ look right at all.

“Mingyu?”

Wonwoo shows up at the top of the steps, squinting as he peers down and scratching the back of his messy morning hair. He blinks a few times, taking a while to register Mingyu’s position and the way his foot looks. Once it all seems to click, he rushes down the stairs and does whatever any other ordinary 18-year-old boy would do: panic.

“Don’t— AH!” Mingyu hisses when Wonwoo reaches for his injured foot, wincing. “Fuckfuckfuck—”

Wonwoo apologizes and goes, “Oh, my God, did that hurt? That must've hurt really bad, I am so sorry, please don't be in too much pain.” He looks around for ideas. “Ice! Y-yeah, you need to ice your foot, right? Where’s your mom? Is she in her room?”

“Work,” Mingyu grunts. “She's at work. So is my dad.”

“But it’s winter break, I thought she was a teacher?”

“I don't fuckin’ know— OWWWW!” Mingyu squirms after attempting to move his toe, which was definitely a bad idea because it hurts so _bad._  Wonwoo, too afraid to touch the journalist’s foot, rubs the other’s back instead. “She… I dunno, something about this kid who got expelled and she has to deal with his problems or whatever.”

Wonwoo scrambles to the kitchen and returns with a Ziploc bag filled with ice. He gently presses it to Mingyu’s injured foot, and Minah shows up at about the same time.

“Oh, Minah!” Wonwoo looks back, mindlessly rubbing Mingyu’s knee to comfort him while keeping the bag of ice in place. “I think your brother broke his foot or something. Can you help me get him into my car?”

At this time of day, Minah isn't conscious enough to get whatever the hell is going on, so she just follows whatever she’s instructed to do. It’s not until they reach the hospital when she realizes her brother has two left feet, he’s kind of crying, and Wonwoo looks like a madman with the hair he’s got. She calls their mom as Mingyu gets checked up, telling her: A. Mingyu fell down the stairs, B. Mingyu is in the emergency room, and C. Mingyu needs a cast—quote, “like, ASAP.”

Fast forward a week later, Mingyu calls Wonwoo and tells him that having a broken leg is kind of depressing and he hasn't left the house ever since he got sent home from the ER. Fast forward an hour after that call, Wonwoo arrives at Mingyu’s house with the offer to pick up something to eat and go blanket shopping. Fast forward eight minutes later, and they're standing in line for honey toast and boba.

“Thanks, by the way,” Mingyu tells Wonwoo after they order, tearing his receipt vertically until he can't anymore, “for taking me out. I didn't want to spend the rest of winter break at home.”

Wonwoo smiles, warm and comforting. “No problem. I was getting tired of just seeing Jun everyday, so spending some time with you is cool.”

“Speaking of Jun”—Mingyu’s eyebrows crinkle—“are you guys a thing?” Wonwoo’s eyes widen, making Mingyu’s defense instincts rise. “N-not that it bothers me, but, um, just wondering.”

“We are definitely _not_ dating,” Wonwoo insists. “I like someone else. I— God, no, we’re like family.”

Mingyu’s heart deflates. Wonwoo likes someone else? What lucky—so fucking lucky—person could he possibly be interested in? It’s not Mingyu, it really can't be him, because Wonwoo’s way too good for a screwed up giant with (admittedly) great proportions. And Wonwoo is gay, right? So that already cancels out all the girls at school—but who can it be?

“Oh, sorry,” Mingyu says, hiding his disappointment, “I just wanted to make sure.”

The crutches make it hard for Mingyu to hold his boba and plate of honey bread, so he leaves them at their table and hops over to the counter to pick up his order. He and Wonwoo sit across from each other, his cast stretching between the introvert’s calves. They share the too-sweet honey bread, talk between bites and slurps of milk tea, and stay for much longer than intended.

Somewhere before, after and between the food and needed breaths, Mingyu’s heart grows significantly. He traps the _ha-ha’s_ of Wonwoo’s laughs in his ears, captures a perfect image of the introvert’s smile, and tries to remember every word that is directed towards him, because everything sticks and everything means so much to him, regardless of it all being finite. And as it all happens, there’s a moment of realization when Wonwoo says, “My mom would love this place; I should take her someday,” that he’s so fucking beautiful and so full of things that define happiness. Mingyu’s loves it, and he can't get enough of it. Perhaps once a person’s shell is broken, the light inside shows. Right now, Wonwoo’s light is showing.

At the superstore closest to the boba shop, Mingyu and Wonwoo browse around for blankets, fuzzy socks and cheap last minute Christmas presents.  Wonwoo picks up a pair of reindeer slippers and cooking pans for his mom, socks for himself, and smaller, cheaper items for Jun’s family. As they pass the faux Christmas trees, the really small ones similar to the the one Wonwoo owns, Mingyu notices one absent of a tree topper. He strays from Wonwoo, hovers his head over the tree, and smiles.

“What are you doing?” Wonwoo asks, stopping.

Mingyu bats his lashes. “Don’t I make a handsome tree topper?”

“Uh”—Wonwoo shakes his head and sours his face—“no, not exactly. Get down, people will start staring.”

“No,” Mingyu argues, “I belong up here because I’m the star.”

“You’re a mess.”

“You're no fun.”

“You’re not pretty enough to be a tree topper.”

“You’re not eith—” Mingyu cuts himself off as he realizes he’s arguing with _Wonwoo,_ a very beautiful and tree topper worthy boy. “Fuck, you win.”

Wonwoo snickers and waves his hand to bring Mingyu back. They start browsing for everything else they need and, lucky them, eventually stumble upon a wire basket of blankets for 20 percent off. As Wonwoo starts digging in the pile for any blankets he may like, Mingyu watches and starts to wonder.

“About dinner with my family,” Mingyu brings up, flourishing an entirely new conversation that Wonwoo may or may not open up about, “when you said you're adopted, is that true?”

Wonwoo hesitates in the midst of grabbing a teal blanket from the sale basket. “Uh, yeah,” he says, “I’m adopted. Mom took me in when I was in first grade.”

His fingers play with the satin ribbon that holds the blanket together, and it makes his shame so evident and real and… It hurts just looking at him. It’s the gut wrenching, heart dropping type of hurt that makes you beg at nothing for mercy, and Mingyu wishes so badly for Wonwoo to never feel this way. But perhaps that’s the thing about Wonwoo: With him, you feel. You sympathize, you empathize, you share emotions, you feel things you can't define—and it makes Mingyu want to know more more more.

“Tell me your story.”

Wonwoo looks up and tucks the blanket in the babyseat of the cart. “What?”

“Tell me your story,” Mingyu repeats. “I want to know about your adopted family, your real family, why it all made you what you are today.”

Wonwoo gives Mingyu a hard dissecting stare, contemplating whether or not Mingyu is messing with him, if he’s worth opening up to. But he catches the way Mingyu’s soft eyes and small smile invite him in with open arms, and Wonwoo melts into it all too easily.

“Let's pay for all this first,” Wonwoo says, “and then we can talk somewhere more private.”

So after paying at self checkout and picking up some oreo McFlurrys from the superstore’s McDonalds, they sit in the backseat of the van, all the way in the neglected part of the parking lot. The back door is wide open and their legs stick out, butts glued to the flooring. It's cold, ice cream is probably a bad idea, but Mingyu's producing so much body heat that he needs something to cool it down.

“My real mom was a prostitute,” Wonwoo says, twirling his spoon in his cup. Mingyu looks at him, all heart and ears. “I don't know who my dad was, no clue what he looks like, but I remember my mom. She was beautiful, honest, and she was really good at singing. She wasn't the best at taking care of my sister and me, though.”

“You have a sister?”

“Older sister,” he corrects. “Her name is Seulgi. She’s about… three years older than me? I honestly don't remember; we were separated after our teachers reported my mom.” He sucks in some air and, as he lets it all out, continues, “So, yeah, mom was a prostitute, never had a dad, I haven’t seen Seulgi in, like, 13 years. I used to, uh, sleep on the floor in PE class. It was an all grade school, so we had bleachers, and I’d lay underneath them and sleep.”

“Why?” Mingyu doesn't think he can finish the rest of his ice cream anymore. “A-and why haven't you bothered looking for your sister? Don't you miss her?”

“Mom had a small apartment shared with other prostitutes and she didn't trust us there alone. So she took us to work with her, and I wouldn't get enough sleep.” Wonwoo glares at nothing, eyebrows furrowing in deep thought. “And yeah, I really miss Seulgi. I miss her so, _so_ much. We used to dance to the street performers at the subway”—He smiles a little, bittersweet—“and sometimes, before I sleep, I can still imagine us doing exactly that. But… she lives in Seoul. I found her on Instagram, and all her captions were in Korean, she spoke Korean in her videos, and just— it's so hard to even press the follow button because I don't know what to say.”

It must be hard, Mingyu thinks. And it is—it really, really is. Being separated from your mother and sister at such a young age, feeling disconnected because you can't speak the same language as your sister, and reminiscing every night rather than  making new memories; Wonwoo has it rough. It’s no wonder he's so standoffish and quiet and full of secrets.

“How ‘bout your mom now? What's her story?”

Wonwoo looks at Mingyu and smiles. “She was in her twenties when she adopted me. She was visiting Korea with her aunt in spring and it was her third day there. Her aunt had a friend that volunteered at the orphanage, so they came to visit and”—Wonwoo gulps—“she told me, ‘The moment I saw you eating cookies alone in the living room, I fell in love and just had to give you the life you deserved.’ She went through this long process just to adopt me, and recently I’ve been wondering: How can one person be so full of love and care that they actually want to take in something that’s been thrown around by everyone else?” He eats some ice cream and slouches a bit. “I’m really thankful for my mom. We both had nothing, she wasn't ready to take care of me, but we gave each other everything we ever needed.”

Mingyu’s lips twitch upwards. “You must really love her.”

“I owe her my life.” There’s a long break as they eat the rest of their ice cream. When Wonwoo finishes, he asks, “What’s your story?”

Mingyu licks some ice cream off the corner of his lips and shrugs. “I don't really have one, honestly. Not one that I can remember. I lost my memory in elementary school, never got it back, and I kind of live off of whatever my family tells me now.” He looks down at the toes peeking out of his cast. It’s cold. “These days, though, it's mostly been my sister telling me about my past. My parents are a bit hard to talk to.”

He starts thinking about it. What made everything so awkward and tense? He knows his parents weren't like this before, it’s common sense, but every day he can feel them getting further apart, from him and each other. It’s worrisome, horrifying, and he can't handle the thought of his parents getting in a divorce or completely forgetting them after college or not being as good as other families. Why can't they love like Wonwoo and his mom? Why can't everyone just grow up and be happy?

There are secrets in the Kim family—they all know that. There has got to be something behind Mingyu’s dad’s smile, something that follows up the word “never mind” as his mom stops mid sentence, something underneath the gaze Minah often shoots at Mingyu. But it is all hidden under lock and key, and it's like they aren't even family anymore. What is there to hide?

“It won’t be like this for long,” Wonwoo assures, “I promise. One day something shitty may happen, and maybe it will be followed up by other shitty things, but you’ll connect over it. Or maybe you’ll connect something not so shitty. It’s part of growing.”

Mingyu chuckles. “You know, you make a better therapist than Dr. Chung.” He looks up and meets Wonwoo’s eyes, and they share sweet smiles. “I hope you find a way to be with Seulgi again.”

“Thanks, Gyu.”

_Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu Thanks Gyu._

 

—

 

The sun is setting when Wonwoo and Mingyu get back home. They stand at the top of Mingyu’s doorsteps, exchanging warmth with each other's presence. The air carries mid-winter temperatures and the whisper of young love, drying their skin and turning their breaths into fog.

“Thanks again,” Mingyu says, going through his pocket for his house keys.

Wonwoo nods. “No problem.”

“I’ll see you when break is over?”

Wonwoo nods again, and it makes his red nose glow. “See you then.” The journalist inserts the key and twists, and the low click it makes gives Wonwoo second thoughts. “Actually”—He stops Mingyu—“I was wondering if we could talk.”

Mingyu laughs—definitely not mean—as he says, “Was a whole day with me not enough?”

“It's about you asking me out at Winter Bonfire.” Wonwoo’s cheeks dust with pink specks. It's adorable, so adorable, but Mingyu can't really focus on that as embarrassment seeps in his skin. “I-I feel like we should set things straight. I don't want to act like nothing happened.”

Without thinking, Mingyu says, “I was kind of hoping you forgot about that.”

“Why?”

“It was embarrassing! Like, _suuuper_ embarrassing, and I keep looking back and wish I had a time travelling machine so I can sucker punch myself.”

Wonwoo laughs. “OK, maybe talking about it will relieve some of that burden.” He sits on the steps and pats on the empty space next to him. Mingyu’s legs extend about four steps down when he sits, slouching and staring at his cast. “I’m assuming you probably have something to say too—”

“N-not really.”

“—so we should just blurt things out at the count of three. OK?”

“Uh, OK, but—”

“One…”

“Shit, wait—”

“Two…”

Mingyu grabs Wonwoo’s cheeks, heart fluttering at the way the latter’s pink lips pucker. Like a fish. A really, really cute fish. “I needed a few extra seconds to think,” he says, laughing airily. “I don’t do well under pressure.”

“I wunted t’ get thith over with,” Wonwoo manages through squished cheeks, “surry. You wanna go firth?”

“You go first.”

“I can’ thay thit,” he argues. “Leh go.”

Mingyu reels his hands away and apologizes, rubbing his palms on his jeans awkwardly. “You can say what you want now,” he insists.

“OK”—Wonwoo adjusts the way he sits so that his body is more angled towards Mingyu, his knee touching the other’s hip—“why did you ask me out?”

The journalist blinks. “Because I like you, obviously.”

“No,” Wonwoo sighs, “I mean, like. You know what, I’ll take that answer. But why do you like me?” He uses his hands to emphasize everything he says, and he’s kind of overdoing it. “It makes no sense, I swear. People like you shouldn’t even be involving themselves with people like me, it’s the most obvious rule in… _this,_ whatever it is.”

“We’ve been talking for, what, two months now? If you haven’t noticed, we broke that rule a long time ago.” Mingyu shrugs, leaning back and propping his elbow on the top step. “There are a lot of reasons as to why I like you—countless, actually. I don’t even think I’ve discovered all of them yet, either.”

Wonwoo makes a face. “Sounds like some Nicholas Sparks bullshit to me.”

Mingyu laughs and rolls his eyes, still smiling. “OK, but it’s true. I like being around you, in a way that can’t compare to being around Jihoon and my sister. Your small habits are so adorable, like crinkling your nose when you smile and that duck lip thing you do when you think. I love hearing you laugh, just ‘cause, and _making_ you laugh makes me feel weirdly proud of myself. And even though you’re quiet, it’s a comforting type of silence, you know? Like, I could spend a whole day with you without speaking, and I’d still think about you when I get home.” By now he realizes that holy shit, he’s actually confessing to Wonwoo and going in full detail and rambling far too much. “Sorry, was that TMI? Oh, geez, I probably sound really stupid, when is it your turn to embarrass yourself?”

And then—

Rose petals.

Wonwoo’s lips feel like rose petals.

They're the kind of soft that makes you want to never keep your hands away. Delicate, smooth, easy to melt into. He’s gentle, scared almost, and he tastes like a mix of mango and beeswax. Mingyu loves the feeling.

Wait.

Mingyu is kissing Wonwoo—no, _Wonwoo_ is kissing _Mingyu—_ and it feels really nice, but really awkward because Mingyu is stone, stuck in place. Wonwoo’s hand is holding the journalist’s jacket, the other one propping him up, and— That gymnast in Mingyu’s gut? She’s doing several somersaults, this time in a field of butterflies, the ones in his notebooks. He’s falling too fast, he’s falling too fast, he’s falling too fast, _I’m falling too fast._

Wonwoo pulls away, agonizingly slow. Their eyes meet, breaths in sync, and it takes some time before Mingyu holds his breath and says:

“I really need to burp.”

The moment is ruined, but not completely, because Wonwoo laughs lightheartedly and looks down as he says, “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Then Mingyu burps, loud and rumbling the back of his throat, and he tries to run away in embarrassment. But, fuck, he has a broken leg and looks like a pirate with his peg stuck in a small hole, so he probably looks even more stupid. Once Mingyu has the door open, he throws himself in and shuts it.

“Oh, shit,” he says to himself, breathless, “that was so embarrassing, I wanna die.” Stricken with sudden realization that he didn't even say goodbye to Wonwoo, he quickly opens the door and says, “Goodnight, thank you for kissing me and I really like you.”

Right after he heads for Minah’s room and barges in, ignoring her look of question as he enters. He flops down beside her on the bed and screams into her pillow, flailing his arms.

“Bro, what the heck?” Minah tries to push her brother off the bed. “Get out of my room.”

With his face buried in the pillow, he sticks his finger up and goes, “No, shh, just shut up.”

“I’m confused.”

“I said shut up, OK, I need a minute.”

Big Bang plays.

“No way, did he kiss you?” Minah gasps. Mingyu squeals and nods, rolling over his sister’s bed and landing on the stuffed hippo she left on the floor. Minah smiles. “You’re so gay, I swear.”

As the night goes on, Mingyu spends it staring at his sister’s ceiling, biting his lips, hugging his cat, and zoning out Minah’s kpop playlist—because you can't not think of Wonwoo Jeon after his lips touch yours. It’s a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fast update! kinda! i was so excited to write this bc i love fluffy moments and omg i actually managed to write less than 4k words for once?
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: day6 - you were pretty (예뻤어)


	10. Rules and Regulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where two teens recognize that nothing last in high school, but are stupid and brave enough to at least give young love a shot.

_Mingyu, look! A butterfly!_

Over ink and numbers, Mingyu drags his pencil up and brings it back to where it started. Within the lines of enlarged webs, he fills them in and out and over and under, imagining a vibrant blue in replacement of the plain white he’s using as a canvas. There’s a splash.

_I want to fly too!_

Fly. The butterfly’s body is arched, arms stretching up and back. Bold, free, _alone—_ it is the creator of its own story and master of its own mind. _Be free, keep going, don’t turn back._

The voice in his head giggles; it’s jumpy, vibrant, shoulder-shaking. He studies the laugh’s melody, and his heart floods as he realizes he’s the composer of it. He wants to hear more.

_Catch it, Mingyu! Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu—_

“Mingyu?” someone whispers.

His pencil collapses in his hand and he blinks.

“Hey, snap out of it”—It’s Jihoon—“you’re drawing on your quiz.”

Mingyu blinks some more. Jihoon is right; there is a gigantic butterfly on his copy of the quiz, and Mingyu is positive that a lead silhouette would still show if he were to erase the entire drawing. He doesn't remember drawing this—it seems as if he just blinked and _poof,_ there it is—but the ache in his left hand tells him he is definitely the one who made it.

“S-sorry,” he croaks. He clears his throat, picking up his paper and rising from his seat, “I don’t know what came over me. I’ll go ask for another copy.”

As he gets up from his stool, he looks down at the butterfly and wonders. He wonders how he could waste time on a full drawing, shading and all, without paying mind to it, and he wonders why he has been making the same exact butterfly for the past few days. He has been drawing butterflies for years, even before the memory loss, and he shouldn't be shocked about drawing his millionth one. But it’s been the same blue monarch with the same details and the same anatomy and the same _everything._ It started with the upside of it, then the downside, then the butterfly somewhere in the trees, now this. Everything is the same, and it’s getting weirder and weirder each time.

Distracted by his thoughts, Mingyu doesn't notice the metal screw loitering his path. When his crutches press over it, it rolls and he falls sideways, dropping the paper. Right away, a cattle of students usher towards him.

“Mingyu!”

“Hey, man, you OK?”

“Here let me help you.”

They’re towering over him, blocking away a lot of light and a lot of needed air. It’s suffocating, makes him feel locked, and he really hates it. But, thank the Lord, Jihoon comes in and breaks through the donut of people and tells them to give Mingyu some space. They listen, sort of, by moving away, but wait to see what happens next. Is Mingyu OK? Did he break his only good foot, too? How did he fall? Why did he get up from his seat in the first place? Is that a butterfly on his quiz? The senior engineering class has always been really nosy. Perhaps Kent Academy in general.

Mingyu successfully gets back on his feet—or, rather, foot—without much assistance. He pats Jihoon on the back in thanks, then picks his crutches off the floor, holding his best friend’s arm for support. A classmate picks up the dropped paper and hands it to Jihoon, who takes a look at it before handing it to Mingyu.

“I get that you really like drawing butterflies,” Jihoon whispers, “but you need to push that aside sometimes. You really freaked me out earlier.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows knit apologetically. “Sorry, I’m… I don't know, I guess I’m tired.”

Jihoon shrugs and goes, “You looked possessed or some other demonic shit.” He looks at the drawing again, curious. “Maybe you should talk to Dr. Chung about this.”

Mingyu could do that, it sounds like the best option for him, but that’s the problem: Talking to Dr. Chung. The moment Mingyu says, “I keep drawing the same exact butterfly, and I’m doing it offhandedly,” his psychiatrist will start a one-man CSI investigation and interrogate him two or three times a week to come up with a conclusion, which, unfortunately, may be inaccurate because she’ll connect it to his past and Mingyu can't remember dog shit. It's a waste of time.

Jihoon goes back to his seat and lets Mingyu ask his teacher for a new copy of the quiz. He gets the copy, plays oblivious to the look his teacher gives him, then heads back to his seat, shoving the butterfly drawing in his backpack. He works through the test fast, all of his previous answers memorized, and the classroom door opens once he’s on the last question. He, along with the rest of the class, looks back and, holy fuck, it’s Wonwoo. He’s done something with his hair, Mingyu can't explain it—it could be the way he styled his bangs?—and has his round glasses on, is wearing a denim jacket, and he looks so handsome it can be illegal. But looking at Wonwoo reminds the journalist of the talk, the _kiss,_ so he kicks his chair back and hides under the work table.

“Mingyu?” Jihoon looks under the table. “What are you doing?”

“SHHHH,” Mingyu panics, holding his finger to his lips, “I’ll explain later, but SHHH!”

His best friend glances up and then asks, “Are you avoiding Wonwoo?”

“Look,” he huffs, “long story short: We kissed over winter break—”

“You _what?”_

“—and I was like, ‘Damn,’ and thought we were going somewhere with this relationship, you know, but I burped and I think my breath might have smelled like raccoon pubes, so I totally embarrassed myself and now I’m trying my best to—”

“Avoid me?”

Mingyu yelps, jumps, hits his head hard against the tabletop. Immediately, the feeling of a tender bump flourishes with adrenaline and a rush of pain. He cradles his head, hiding his face in his arms and holding his breath. When he looks up, face soured in discomfort, he sees irises with specks of gold over bronze.

“Oh, fuck,” he utters, forgetting about the pain and realizing that Wonwoo is right in front of him, crouched down on the other side of the table’s metal support.

“Figures why your mom said you had already left when I came by to pick you up,” Wonwoo says. “Are you taking the bus?”

“You’re taking the fucking _bus?”_ Jihoon butts in.

“Listen, I—” Mingyu gets up and hits his head again. “Ow, fuck, listen. I’m… in a bad position right now because of all the embarrassment, so I thought it would be right to, you know, take the… bus. For now.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrow raises. “For now?” he parrots.

“For now.”

The introvert nods slowly, processing. “Right,” he says. “Well, I can still give you a ride today.”

A little too quickly, Mingyu says, “I have yearbook after school.”

“No, you don't,” Jihoon interrupts. Mingyu punches his leg. “Ack!”

“Just”—Wonwoo sighs, turning away—“text me whenever you need me to take you home, ‘kay? It's been kind of empty without anyone to drive around with.”

And although Mingyu melts at those words, believing that Wonwoo actually wants him around and enjoys the warmth they used to share, he doesn't text the introvert; rather, he turns the other direction before they can cross in the hallways, journeying to the buses.

 

—

 

Towards the end of journalism, while he zones out and procrastinates on his club pictures spread, Mingyu thinks of Niccolò Machiavelli— No, actually, Machiavelli’s stupid book about power and dominance and whatnot. “The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler,” Mingyu remembers, “is to look at the men he has around him.” So he thinks of himself, how he probably looks around Jihoon and Seokmin and Soonyoung and Seungkwan, and imagines how he’d look in the eyes of others. They’re bright, and so is Mingyu. They’re loud, and so is Mingyu. They’re all webbed in one constellation, connected and dotted and perfectly fitting.

Then he thinks of Wonwoo, remembers his first impression of the introvert’s twirly-pencil-thingy and smile, but wonders what Wonwoo’s reputation would be if Mingyu hadn't paid so much attention to him that day. Perhaps he’d be a bad boy, leather jacket and all from the party he went to with Jun. Perhaps he’d be the ukulele kid with the small wrists, or the quiet guy no one notices until halfway through the year. But with all these guesses, assumptions, what if’s, Mingyu realizes that Wonwoo has never had anyone around him to follow Machiavelli’s guide. All Wonwoo has is himself, apart from Jun, but Jun is already the breathing and walking form of mystery, his own reflection of Wonwoo. Wonwoo Jeon—no rep, no impressions, a blank canvas.

It must be nice being your own person and being able to start whenever. Mingyu’s impression started the second he woke up in the hospital all those years ago, when his mom started sobbing and giving him wet kisses all over, when his dad left work early to see his son open his eyes again, when his sister squealed in joy as Mingyu said his first “hello” upon regaining consciousness. The nurses that day, who cared and monitored Mingyu, decided that he was the center, the heart, of his family—but that’s bullshit because look at where he is now: drifted off to the very edge, waiting for an opportunity to get thrown the fuck off. Maybe Wonwoo’s impression started when he moved from South Korea to a rusty town in America, as an adopted kid with no sister, a new mom, and no understanding of even the basics of English.

“Eggplant,” Mingyu hears someone shout. He peers over his iMac and looks at Jihoon from across the classroom, “c’mere.”

Mingyu pushes his chair back and walks to Jihoon, who is sitting on top of a table, legs crossed, a bulky camera in his hands. “Yeah?” Mingyu says.

Jihoon removes the leather camera strap to show Mingyu the screen. On it is a picture of Wonwoo and Mingyu at Winter Bonfire, sitting with a blanket over their shoulders and laughing together. Mingyu blushes looking at the picture.

“This one,” Jihoon says, then goes to the next picture, “or this one?”

The second picture is similar to the first, only, this time, Mingyu is holding a roasted marshmallow, blowing it to cool it down, and Wonwoo is watching him with a small smile. Mingyu wants to scream.

“Ask someone else,” Mingyu recommends. He sees Kyla, a sophomore, grabbing a camera from the cabinet and says, “Hey, Kyla, which picture should Jihoon use for the Bonfire spread?”

While rushing past them, Kyla replies, “I like the first one,” and makes a beeline out the classroom.

“But you didn't even look at the picture,” Mingyu complains.

Kyla rolls her eyes as she turns back, and, honestly, she looks frightening. Small, pretty, but Mingyu’s worst nightmare. “You’re right there, Mingyu,” she says, “you help him choose.”

Then she leaves and it’s just Wonwoo and Mingyu in a classroom with busy students and incomplete yearbook pages. Mingyu groans, but Jihoon laughs mockingly.

“Ha! Now help me: one or two,” Jihoon deadpans.

“Do we really need to use _these_ pictures?”

“Look”—Jihoon sets the camera on his lap and leans back, supporting his weight with his arms—“if you’re dragging Wonwoo into another one of your games, save it. Don't ruin the guy, he doesn't need a reason to close himself off even more because of some fast-growing idiot.”

“Hey,” Mingyu bites, “that’s actually super rude.”

“But super true.” Jihoon jerks the camera closer to Mingyu. “Now choose before I sucker punch you.”

Mingyu chooses the first one, but he doesn't tell Jihoon it’s because he can still feel the radiating warmth and touching knees. When he returns to his seat and finishes the folio design of his spread, the bell rings.

 

—

 

“You’re avoiding me.”

Mingyu stops in the middle of the quad and looks back. There, beneath the gray cast of sad clouds, Wonwoo has an eyebrow raised at him, tongue poking the inside of his cheek, and everything about his presence is demanding for reason. Mingyu gulps and fixes his posture, grabbing his backpack straps to keep his hands busy. A quick breeze passes.

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo presses.

“I want to talk to you, I swear,” Mingyu says in a rush. He bites his lip. _Was that too fast?_ “I…” he continues, slower, “It’s just that, I can't stop, uh— OK, this is embarrassing, but I can't stop thinking about you? And every time I want to say something, I try to imagine how the conversation goes and all I think of is me burping? So it’s, uh, it’s been hard. Talking to you, I mean.”

It takes a moment for Wonwoo to sigh and roll his eyes. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

He takes Mingyu’s hand and walks him out of the quad, into the parking lot. Mingyu doesn't resist, too distracted by the feeling of Wonwoo’s cold hand sending shivers up his arm and down his spine. _He’s holding my hand, oh my god oh my god oh my god._ By the time they reach the van, though, Mingyu struggles to pull back.

“Wonwoo, I really don't know if I’m ready to sit in the same car as you, you make me really nervous sometimes, you know—”

His words get cut off with a strangled yelp as Wonwoo grabs Mingyu’s face, pulls him closer, then meets his eyes. “You’re an idiot sandwich,” he says. “I’m taking you home.”

Mingyu swallows. “Yessir.”

So they get inside, trying their hardest to avoid the evident tension between them. Wonwoo turns on the radio to fill the space and push away the discomfort, but Katy Perry could only do so much. They are back to square one again, only this time it’s… weirder.

Somewhere on the road, Mingyu clears his throat and says, “You called me an idiot sandwich.”

“You _are_ an idiot sandwich.”

“What is with everyone and calling me an idiot today?” Mingyu complains. “I’m just fine.”

“You avoided me for over a week and something days, Gyu. Just because you burped.”

“Well, not exactly,” he murmurs. Wonwoo pulls in Mingyu’s driveway and turns off the car, ready to hear the rest. “I’m actually more confused than anything. You said rejected me after Winter Bonfire, but when you kissed me…”

Wonwoo looks at Mingyu with something in his eyes, some sort of mix of patience and guilt and understanding. “Perhaps I got a bit carried away when you said all those things,” he says, low and quiet to match the cloudy skies, “and I guess I shouldn't have kissed you like that—”

“Oh, no, it’s OK, you could do that now and I’d be fine,” Mingyu blurts. “Totally fine.”

Wonwoo tries to continue, but a smile breaks through and he laughs, and his laughs get slightly louder and harder the more he thinks of how straightforward Mingyu is. “You”—he closes his eyes, covers his face, and his shoulders shake—“never fail to surprise me.” The laughter dies off, and when it does Wonwoo leans back and stares at the garage door, smile fading. “Talking like this feels a bit distant, don't you think? Let’s move this outside.”

“Uh,” Mingyu stutters, shoulders tensing, “my parents could come out anytime, what if they see us?”

“We’re talking, Gyu, not starting an orgy.” Wonwoo unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out the van. “C’mon.”

So Mingyu follows, circling around the Volkswagen to stand closer to Wonwoo—his crush, his temporary driver, his tutor, his muse, his (close to) everything. He tucks his hands in his jacket pockets, ready to go on with their talk, but gets surprised when Wonwoo takes a step closer and hugs him. For a few seconds, Mingyu only stands. He processes what’s happening, blinks once he’s aware of Wonwoo’s arms wrapped around his waist, then says, “Someone is being out of character.” Nonetheless, he still hugs back.

“I really, really miss talking to you,” Wonwoo admits. “I needed the hug.”

Mingyu hugs him tighter. “Understandable,” he says. “I’m here now, though.” They stay like that for a long while, keeping their hands right where they are and familiarizing themselves with each other’s touches. And although they enjoy it and love the feeling of being in each other’s arms, it’s saddening, because the reality of senior year ending in just a number of months dawns on them. What they have right now… how long would it truly last? “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Slowly, they part from each other. Wonwoo slides the back door open and sits, legs dangling out. Mingyu does the same, and it's just like the time Wonwoo opened up about his mom and Seulgi. “I kind of feel like none of this is going to be permanent,” Wonwoo says, “that not all of it will last very long. It's our last year of high school and it just seems like bad timing.”

And it is bad timing. High school ends in, what, five months? Maybe six? Soon, Wonwoo and Mingyu will be going their separate ways, ending grade life and starting their college years. Neither of them are in doubt that, if they start a relationship, it might not last as long as they want. But Mingyu is hopeful anyway, and he isn't afraid of hiding it. He has already gone this far in learning with and about Wonwoo; he might as well pry more out of whatever else the latter may have to offer. It’ll be good for him, he believes. And although Wonwoo doesn't mention it, he thinks he’ll learn a lot as well.

Mingyu plays with his jacket zipper. “I’m guessing you don't think high school relationships last very long?”

“I don't think _anything_ in high school lasts long.”

“It scares you?”

“Just a bit.”

“It scares me, too, now that I think of it.” Mingyu looks at Wonwoo and, after taking his hand, continues, “I feel like we’re stupid enough to try, though.”

Wonwoo grins and holds Mingyu’s hand tighter. “I guess we can try.” He looks down, admiring the way their fingers lace and palms fit. “I really like you.”

“Go on.”

His nose crinkles—by far one of Mingyu’s most favorite habits of his—and he says, “Maybe I’ll say it all some other day,”

“OK, fine,” Mingyu agrees. It starts to rain lightly, “but on another note, I have a lot of homework and the rain might get worse, so I should go now. But, by the way, I still want you to talk about how much you adore me.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No, you adore me.”

“Exaggerating,” he sings.

Mingyu lets go of Wonwoo’s hand, and when the introvert tries to say goodbye, Mingyu kisses him on the cheek. It’s fast, rebellious, makes Wonwoo jump a little. Both of their hearts coo at the feeling, and it sends blood to their cheeks.

Wonwoo blinks, sputtering. “Wha— Gyu, we aren’t even dating yet.”

Mingyu grabs his backpack from the backseat and hugs it rather than throwing it over his shoulders, jogging off. He looks back at Wonwoo with a wide grin. _“Yet._ You said it, not me!” he shouts, already at his doorstep. “Pick me up tomorrow morning?”

Wonwoo smiles and says, “What happened to taking the bus?”

“I’d choose your Volkswagen over the bus any day!”

And he laughs, so loud that Mingyu hears it echo from where he is. He can hear the “H” that comes from the gut, the “A” that comes from the back of his throat. It makes Mingyu jump at his heels.

The rain starts to come down faster and in big groups, and Mingyu tells Wonwoo to leave before it gets worse. From under the little shelter the front porch provides, he watches the introvert start the van and drive away. Minah opens the door just after Wonwoo is gone out of sight. “Why aren't you inside already? You’re usually home before me these days,” she says. Mingyu looks at his sister, grins from ear to ear, then says, “I’m here now, aren’t I?” He enters the house. “How was school?”

As Minah tells Mingyu about her world history debate, with the interruption of telling her brother to kick off his shoes, Seungkwan appears at the end of the doorsteps—and although Mingyu doesn't turn back to see, he knows his best friend is there. He always, somehow, knows Seungkwan is there and everywhere. This time, however, he doesn’t acknowledge Seungkwan, doesn’t even turn back to even make eye contact. He only shuts the door behind him, locks it, and carries Sari to the kitchen with him for a glass of water.

_Catch it, Mingyu!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm stressing out so much w/ my grades, i'm sorry if you don't get another update for another month. the quarter is ending and i'm a mess. but thank you for being patient and sticking around, i really appreciate it!
> 
>   
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohheykorra) || [tumblr](https://wnnwoos.tumblr.com)  
> song rec: la la land - city of stars


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